The Art and Science of Duty
by A.E.Vespera
Summary: The life of Minerva McGonagall from 1972 to the end of the First Wizarding War.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note**: Unlike my previous story, I have actually planned ahead and therefore wrote ahead so as to avoid writer's block. I have a specific plan for posting, which can be viewed on my profile. Also, please note that this story may contain minor spoilers for the additional content on Pottermore. More information on how I am handling the issue is on my profile as well, but this fanfiction will consist primarily of filling in the blanks of canon. In this first chapter, don't worry - I changed a total of four words in separate sentences to accommodate new information, and you will be highly unlikely to spot it.

**Disclaimer**: If you honestly think I am J. K. Rowling, you might want to find a definition of "fan fiction" to clarify this grievous misconception.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 1<strong>

_"Courage is not the lack of fear, but rather the judgment that there is something more important than fear."_

_– Ambrose Redmoon_

1972

"I've come to give a very grave announcement to you. Mr. Wood, that's enough. I would suggest that you listen to me."

Minerva allowed a stony silence to descend over the Gryffindor common room as she arched an imperious eyebrow at her still-disobedient fifth year. From their place near the hearth, Ben Fenwick, Shannon Kerrigan, and Adaira Stirling seemed motivated to divert their attention from work, a miracle in of itself. Minerva began as soon as James Potter and Sirius Black, the only first years who did not appear currently petrified with fear of their impending doom, finally summoned enough good sense to be silent.

"Undoubtedly, you all have heard rumors, perhaps even in the _Daily Prophet_, but the Headmaster requests that we make this official before you inevitably read the muddled accounts in the papers tomorrow morning. As you well know, there have been multiple unexplained killings of varying degree recently, in both the Wizarding and Muggle Communities.

"All of these fatalities have been accredited to a single mass murderer and wizard. I assure you from what we know thus far, he is not a standard lunatic – Mr. Potter, do be quiet, this is not a laughing matter – and these crimes have been substantially premeditated. Voldemort has developed a stringent attitude toward all opposition, and he and his supporters, which you know he has called Death Eaters, will be most severe in executing any sort of punishment they feel is in order. I do hope you understand me when I say that this wizard is of great threat to the Wizarding and Muggle Communities, and to you personally as well, along with your families. By now, surely you know this."

Minerva paused to restore her previous briskness into the conclusion, so as to not send the first years into a state of panic. Several of them seemed already to have managed to multiply the size of their eyes to the size of a house elf's.

"In light of the situation, the _Daily Prophet_ will be issuing a safety guide tomorrow morning, and I would like you first to know that the Headmaster suggests you all exercise utmost caution in your day-to-day proceedings at Hogwarts and during your summer holidays."

Professor McGonagall regarded her students briefly as a dismissal and quickly made to escape through the portrait hole. Unfortunately, she was promptly interrupted by a verbal explosion of several students, who were intent on barraging her with inquiries. She couldn't say she didn't expect it. At the Ministry's insistent instruction, the students had been kept almost entirely in the dark in regards to Voldemort's escalation over the school year.

"Professor, what are we to do about this? Sit around and wait for him?" demanded Wood, rising from his chair.

"What business would he have at Hogwarts anyway?" asked Henry Brown, a dark-haired fifth year, whose naïveté occasionally threatened his wellbeing.

"How is he gathering supporters?"

"He's not using mind-control, is he?" asked a frightened second-year. Minerva suppressed a shudder.

"And how have they figured out all of this information anyway?"

"Sounds like a nutter, if you ask me," commented James offhandedly, inciting some laughter from his sidekick.

"Where is he? Has he been sighted around here?"

"Wait, what does he look like?"

"Who are his supporters? Haven't they any clue about that?" scoffed Mark Cuthbert, an evidently angry fourth year.

"You haven't even told us his _name_, Professor!"

"Is he targeting _everybody_ or just select groups of wizards and muggles? Who is fighting against him?" inquired Adaira.

"What is he aiming for? Has he made any demands to the Ministry?" asked Ben.

"How is he going about these killings? Does he give warnings? Does he have sophisticated weaponry?" demanded Sigmund Throckmore, an apparently military-minded fifth year.

"Are people going into hiding?" squeaked a nervous first-year.

"Why is he killing so many people? Is it at random?"

"What do you mean, 'exercise caution'? Refuse to go outside during the holidays?"

"Barricade the doors to our houses?"

"Are there any jinxes or charms we can put up to protect ourselves and our families?" Shannon inquired.

"Defend ourselves? I'd kill him if I could!" shouted a seventh-year, standing.

"What about muggle-borns? We can't do any magic at outside of school for preventative purposes!" exclaimed Lily Evans. By that time, most of the common room had quickly risen to their feet. Some looked fearful; others, furious.

Fifth year Eoin Bryan started angrily, "Professor, we'd really appreciate some _decent_ informat—

"SILENCE!" shouted Professor McGonagall, eyes blazing and hands shaking. "Now, listen. And sit down, for heaven's sake!"

She waited impatiently for the Gryffindors to settle down enough to be generally quiet while she was speaking.

"There is not much that we _do_ know, so that is why there appears to be such a ridiculous lack of information. It is not only you who are being deprived of it," she said quietly, an odd look spanning across her face for a few moments.

"However, I can tell you that there will be more advice for you from the Headmaster on how to best defend yourselves and your families when you return home for the summer holidays. It will likely be given at the end-of-term feast. So, for now, if you would only harass me with questions in a civilized manner , while being conscious of the fact that I may not be able to provide you with an answer, I would be very appreciative," she added quickly, staring at them all with her eyebrows raised.

Following that, she did answer some simple questions to some of the younger students and refused to respond to the majority of the questions posed by the older, more perceptive ones. Now was not the appropriate time to launch a tangent of her own conspiracy theories on the subject. Finally, a lull came over the common room, and Minerva took her opportunity.

"It is almost midnight. I would suggest you all go off to bed. Good night." With that, she abruptly left the common room and the swarm of frantic students within.

Minerva walked back to her office hurriedly. Despite the fact that it was approaching an increasingly dreadful time of night, she had several stacks of ungraded essays sitting forebodingly atop her desk. Now, assaulted by nervous thoughts about Voldemort, she would be driven to insomnia regardless.

Minerva pulled open the wooden door to her office with the intention of lighting a fire and having several cups of highly-caffeinated tea, but her plan soon proved highly unworkable when she detected a tall, Headmaster-shaped impediment in her office.

"Minerva, my dear, your Gryffindors must certainly have had a word or two to say in response. Pomona was finished most recently, and that was approximately thirty minutes ago. I believe some of her younger students were rather upset."

It appeared Albus Dumbledore had taken up residence behind Minerva's desk. As per usual, his attire was ridiculously colorful and flamboyant, not to mention downright offensive to some people. Half-moon spectacles framed his clear blue eyes, which always seemed to be twinkling for some reason or another. He stood then, his smile illuminated by the fire that he had already thought to light, and he held out a cup to her.

"Tea, Minerva?" he asked kindly.

Minerva nodded gratefully but continued to stand at the threshold of the room with a rather puzzled expression on her face.

"Thank you. But, is there anything I can do for you, Dumbledore?" she inquired, her tone tinged with impatience. Before that evening, Dumbledore had absconded to London for a week in order to attend some sort of conference which he had refused to elaborate on. Minerva, consequently, had been abandoned to not only prepare her Transfiguration students for upcoming exams but also manage the proceedings of an entire school lodged in a magical castle of somewhat unpredictable nature. In short, Albus Dumbledore had earned her displeasure.

"You know, Minerva, I should not be the one to invite you into your own office," he mused with a slight laugh in his voice. "I should have explained myself, I suppose. Actually, better yet, would you mind terribly coming up to my office for a short time? I'm afraid it's of a rather urgent nature."

Minerva attempted to replace her disapproval with curiosity, but to no avail. Dumbledore frequently summoned her to his office on grounds that Minerva found somewhat useless.

"I assure you, under ordinary circumstances I would insist you go to bed immediately and take the day off tomorrow, but these times, I am sure you will agree, are not very ordinary at all."

Minerva sighed resignedly. He _was _her boss. "Of course."

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><p>The pair reached Dumbledore's office shortly thereafter. Dumbledore seemed oddly grim, which, to Minerva, indicated something was certainly amiss. Immediately unsettled by what else could be <em>worse<em> than Voldemort's current ravages upon Great Britain, Minerva's mind began thinking circles around itself in a sort of terror until Dumbledore's calm voice floated across the room.

"I truly am sorry to bother you so late, Minerva, but I did not want to trouble you with this information until _after_ you had been questioned by your students. It will prove to be, I think, one less thing that you will have to withhold from most of them."

Minerva looked into his translucent blue eyes, perplexed.

"Why, of course, you're confused. I apologize. I suppose I should start at the beginning. Do make yourself comfortable, my dear."

With a flourish of his wand, Dumbledore conjured two gaudy chintz armchairs and motioned for Minerva to sit down. She did so, stiffly. Dumbledore no longer appealed to her in this regard as he did during the early years of their acquaintance, and proceeded on with the conversation.

"As I'm sure you've deduced by now, I'd like to discuss the matter of Voldemort with you."

Minerva winced slightly, meriting a small look of disappointment from Dumbledore. Why were people, she included, becoming so affected by the mere mention of this man? She suppressed the urge to recoil into the furniture; she would much rather have been yelled or glared at – anything but Dumbledore's usual response to her indiscretions.

"Yes, I assumed so. But, I was under the impression that you had said all you intended to this morning at the staff meeting. Not to mention before," she answered.

Dumbledore studied his hands for a moment. "You see, this does not have so much to do with Voldemort as it does me and my personal intentions."

Minerva, having regained some of her former confidence, eyed him suspiciously.

"Minerva, contrary to the accusations of some of your more impassioned Gryffindors, I do not intend to stand by and allow Voldemort to carry out his plans without considerable opposition. As you no doubt have noticed, the Ministry has hardly been able to handle the situation thus far."

Unlike typical meetings in Dumbledore's office wherein her attention was overtaken by his various trinkets and historical artifacts, Minerva found herself leaning forward in her chair as Dumbledore's voice grew lower.

"What sort of opposition?" she asked in equally quiet tones.

"Quite an organized opposition. You were too young to be involved during the war against Grindelwald, but, I believe similar measures need to be taken. This of course, would be methodical – not rash, but preventative. I would much rather have levels of resistance at hand before things become worse, at any rate."

Now, Minerva McGonagall viewed herself as quite realistic and level-headed, but she trusted Dumbledore rather implicitly. If Dumbledore felt the situation would ultimately escalate further—

"You think it will get worse, then?" inquired Minerva in a softer voice, a searching voice that was not her own.

"Yes, I do," Dumbledore confirmed gravely. "Though, it is not reason to lose hope, but, rationally, I think we would be better outfitted if we overestimate Voldemort rather than underestimate him and scramble to assemble a few years from now."

She nodded earnestly. "Dumbledore, you mentioned Grindelwald."

"Oh, yes. Forgive an old man and his lost train of thought, Minerva. Thirty years ago, a small number of secret societies existed with the purpose of thwarting Grindelwald's actions at large. These organizations were indisputably valuable for the purpose of gathering intelligence, thus allowing us to maneuver to dismantle Grindelwald's plans. They were also a resource for combat against his forces, among other things," explained Dumbledore.

"So, that is what you intend to do. Form a secret society," inferred Minerva, looking to Dumbledore for confirmation. Once it was given, she continued. "Who else have you mentioned this to?"

Dumbledore smiled slightly. "Well, I have been contemplating the idea for several months now, but you are the first to hear it in full."

Minerva raised her eyebrows. "Me? Why?"

"Why not you? I consider you one of my most trusted companions," said Dumbledore, apparently either ignorant of or unfazed by Minerva's shock. Minerva felt herself blush.

"Well, er—thank you, Dumbledore," she answered quickly. "Who else do you expect to recruit, then? I assume you don't expect to form your association using only the two of us."

"Minerva, you realize there is substantial risk and danger involved—

"I know, and I don't care," interrupted Minerva. "I would much rather be in a position to do something useful. You understand that I would bring myself to insanity if I wasn't." She could scarcely even take more than a weekend-long vacation over the summer holidays.

Laughing to himself, Dumbledore added, "Yes. I thought so, my dear. As for your inquiry, I would like to consult Elphias Doge, an old friend of mine. Also, you have met Irving and Caroline McKinnon, and I believe you had their daughter Marlene as a student. Alastor Moody as well, I think, and Dedalus Diggle – Minerva, I realize you aren't particularly fond of his lack of common sense, but he is quite loyal."

Minerva nodded, beckoning him to continue.

"Hagrid, of course, will be informed."

"_Hagrid_, Dumbledore?"

"You might give him more credit, Minerva, and you will come to trust him as I do. Also, the Fenwick's, the Throckmore's, and Kathleen Kerrigan. As for some of the younger people, I believe Frank Longbottom will be eager to assist us, as well as perhaps the Prewett's. Can you think of any others, Minerva?"

"Edgar Bones," she answered without hesitation. Edgar Bones, head of the Justice Department at the Ministry, was a close friend of Minerva's family, not to mention so perceptive that he was likely to have suspected Voldemort years prior. "And my brother Malcolm. Perhaps my brother Robert as well. Emmeline Vance, too, if I can persuade her. I might think of others, but I would like to put it to thought, so as to not…unhinge your operation before it begins."

Dumbledore suddenly rid himself of all earlier grimness and smiled merrily. "Thank you, Minerva."

"You're welcome. But, how exactly do you hope to contact all of these people? I can help with a few, but it might be rather conspicuous of you to be making numerous unexpected house calls," pointed out Minerva.

"I expect Fawkes may be able to assist in that regard," responded Dumbledore, gesturing to his pet phoenix with brilliant red and gold plumage that rested on a perch beside his desk.

Minerva's eyes narrowed skeptically. "You expect people to endanger their lives at your request, as delivered by your bird? You expect them to answer to the orders of a phoenix – Dumbledore, honestly, sometimes I wonder about you. After all, letters via phoenix is hardly less outrageous than you knocking on doors yourself for the next week. This information isn't exactly something to be delivered by mail, in any case."

Dumbledore folded his hands and laced his fingers together contemplatively. "Hmm… what an intriguing name. The Order of the Phoenix. I rather like it, don't you?"

"I meant to offer criticism, not a title, Dumbledore," sighed Minerva, exasperated.

"Perhaps you were not, but I feel the name will work nicely just the same," answered Dumbledore. "But, for now, I must ask one more thing of you."

Minerva's eyebrows contracted. "Yes, Dumbledore?"

"Alastor Moody. If I'm right, you were once a close friend of his. I imagine that he may require a token more of _convincing_ than the rest of the names I mentioned," explained Dumbledore.

"Moody? Dumbledore, he is the most maniacal conspiracy theorist I know. Persuading him to believe that Voldemort warrants some attention will not be difficult."

"Ah, yes, indeed. Just last year at the Ministry Christmas Gala – and, I must say, I was quite astonished that he made an appearance – I noticed he was very cautious about accepting beverages from the caterers. I daresay he offended some poor woman when he threatened to have her company's license revoked for improper preparing methods. I nearly intervened when—

"Dumbledore, the point, if you wouldn't mind."

"Oh, yes: the point. Alastor Moody, while he remains incurably skeptical of institutions, is quite liable to be equally distrusting of our operation, Minerva."

Minerva frowned, seeing where this was going. _She_ was to bear the full force of Moody's flat rejection and subsequent arguments, and then finally attempt to draw him to a state of grudging consent to be inducted into Dumbledore's new Order.

"Of course," she muttered.

"And, Minerva, I expect a few of your Gryffindors might be interested in hearing more about Voldemort. Perhaps a few questions in the future could be answered in more detail, to select students, of course."

"Dumbledore! Have you just given my permission to run my mouth off at students about this?" she started.

Dumbledore chuckled to himself. "It does seem so. It's a good thing I trust your judgment, my dear. All I am saying is that you may feel free to use your discretion in how much you tell to students, and which students you choose to tell things to."

She looked at him sternly, but his smiling expression held. With that, Dumbledore politely bade her good night and released her from his office. Minerva returned to her rooms and fell asleep almost immediately, mind still whirring with images of dark lords, frightened students, and Albus Dumbledore, who was surely still sitting awake in his office, rather pleased with the clever name he had come up with for his secret society.

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><p><strong>Another Author's Note<strong>: Thank you for reading. Please review! Also, I'm looking for a beta reader.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note**: This chapter is a bit shorter than what I originally intended, but I wanted to update on time. Expect the next chapter to be longer. Also, it's probably clear by now that I am taking liberties with Order members by assuming that not all members were present in the photograph Moody showed Harry because (a) not all were present at that particular meeting, and (b) some may have died previously.

**Disclaimer**: I'm not J. K. Rowling, but rather a poor student who makes no profit whatsoever of this pursuit of my hobby.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 2<strong>

1972

"You are dismissed," Minerva said, freeing the elated Gryffindor and Slytherin fifth years who had just received another lecture that was intended to prepare them for their upcoming O.W.L. exams. Yet, Minerva doubted the greater portion of them retained a word she said. Some of the Gryffindor students looked frightened, some of the Slytherins appeared conflicted, and the rest seemed too focused on their upcoming dinner to trouble themselves with simple things like examinations that would dictate the quality of their futures. Minerva had been anticipating a fly landing in Henry Brown's opened mouth.

Some of her students, however, did not seem to be taking their liberation with much enthusiasm; four Gryffindors and one Slytherin had yet to vacate the premises.

"Hi!" exclaimed Nicholas Mareo, a short, dark-haired Slytherin. He was ambitious to a fault but so unlike a Slytherin in every other way. Minerva had grown to dread him.

"Go away, Nicholas," instructed Adaira Stirling and Shannon Kerrigan in unison.

"Why?" asked Nicholas, astonished.

"We've already said 'hello' to you today. There is no point in saying it again. How many times must we tell you not to speak needlessly?" sighed Adaira irritably.

"Well, I was just expressing my greetance to the two of you and your new companion, who I noted you do not usually associate with," insisted Nicholas. In addition to being frightfully cheerful, the boy also had an obnoxious habit of trying to reinforce his intelligence. By doing so, however, he often made utterly no sense – as was most often manifested in his overlong homework assignments – because vocabulary did not exactly come naturally to him.

"Shut up, Nicholas," said Shannon. "We have things to do. We'll see you after dinner."

Minerva began to stir from behind her desk. True, she had heard Adaira and Shannon's frustration unleashed upon Nicholas on several occasions and by now completely understood their exasperation with the needy child. Still, she wished to remove the incessant chatter from her classroom after her lesson had ended, if only to preserve her own sanity.

"Are you discluding me?" asked Nicholas in a nervous giggle.

"Excluding. And, obviously," replied Adaira tersely. "We'll speak to you later!"

Nicholas made no signs of movement, and Adaira then fully lost her patience. "Just get out, Nicholas! Can't you see Shannon and I are _busy_?"

Nicholas quickly shut his mouth, which had been poised to protest, and he fled from the room.

"Are you always that harsh with him?" asked Eoin Bryan, the other Gryffindor who had lingered and who had been gawking at the girls and Nicholas for the extent of the strained conversation.

Adaira and Shannon nodded fervently.

"And I have no guilt. I can't tell you the number of times I've told that boy to shut up. We always mention to him that he should inform us if we're upsetting him, ask us to stop, and we will. Since he's never said anything, we can only assume that he likes it. I can't take responsibility for his masochism," muttered Adaira, seeing that Minerva was now intently observing.

Shannon was also only minutely deterred. "That and the fact that does the same thing every day…I swear he cannot close is mouth. We'd tolerate him much more if he didn't talk at us so much about such trivial things."

Minerva had to quickly divert herself to sorting a stack of papers to suppress a grin. Just as Minerva concealed her amusement, two other Gryffindors – this time seventh-years – invaded her classroom. They were a strange group: Sigmund Throckmore, the strapping Quidditch captain with a long, auburn ponytail; Ben Fenwick, a tall, gangly young man who vacillated between various bookish obsessions; Adaira Stirling, who had butterscotch-colored, curly hair and piercing gray eyes, complete with a formidable Scottish temper; Shannon Kerrigan, a petite girl with a shock of dark blonde frizzy hair; and Eoin Bryan, a dark-skinned boy who ever seemed in the shadow of the more fiery, domineering personalities of Sigmund and Adaira.

Despite their distinctiveness, the five of them converged to whisper conspiratorially before turning to stare at Minerva. They were clearly up to something. If anything could be said about Gryffindors, the overwhelming majority of them lacked any ability to be subtle.

"Is there something I might help you all with, or are you just intent on forming a cult in the middle of my classroom?" asked Minerva dryly, glancing up from her paperwork.

"Professor McGonagall?" said Eoin warily.

"Yes, I know my name, Mr. Bryan, and I assure you that I am not being impersonated. There will be no need to say it so incredulously. Now, would the five of you kindly tell my why you are still in my classroom? "

"Professor, we er—well, we wanted to…" Eoin stuttered in such a fashion for several seconds.

"—we wanted to know if you could tell us where we might find out more about Voldemort," Adaira finished confidently.

Minerva felt her eyes narrow angrily and contemplated lapsing into an irritated rage after what had happened the night before in the Gryffindor tower. Though, remembering Dumbledore's advice, her face softened into grimness.

"I should have known," she murmured to herself. Dumbledore must have assumed…

"Known what, Professor?" inquired Sigmund.

"Nothing, Throckmore! Now, sit down and be courteous if you hope to receive any information from me!" she commanded sternly and conjured five wooden, straight-backed chairs and placed them before her desk. The now absolutely shocked students obeyed and waited for her to speak.

"You five do realize that this situation is incredibly dangerous, and I cannot sit here and be completely candid? What, then, do you specifically wish to know?" she asked in her less-stern voice.

"Professor, the five of us had known about…You-Know-Who…before you discussed him last evening," explained Ben. "You see, Sigmund's, Shannon's, and my parents have all been suspicious of this for awhile, and, naturally, Adaira and Eoin have known as well. We got to talking after you left last night, and thought it would be likely that Professor Dumbledore and yourself were not prepared to sit by and do nothing. And, Professor, neither are we."

The other four nodded earnestly, seemingly quite unaware that they had failed to pose any actual questions.

Minerva wasn't quite sure how to respond. Yes, Dumbledore seemed to have predicted this, and there was no doubt in her mind that Kathleen Kerrigan, the Fenwick's, and the Throckmore's would be some of the first to join the resistance movement. But, the Headmaster had also made it clear the Order of the Phoenix intended to rely upon adult witches and wizards – not students. Was she really already acknowledging the stupid name Dumbledore had thought up? She was about to banish the five students from the room when the door swung open.

The students turned to see Dumbledore striding in with a strange look on his face, one Minerva had always associated with him about to beat her at a game of chess.

"Ah, Professor McGonagall. I see there is some matter of interest here with your young Gryffindors. Now, if none of you have any plans, we might take our dinner in my office and have a little chat."

Minerva eyed him suspiciously. "Of course, Professor Dumbledore," she replied, chivvying along the dumbstruck Gryffindor students.

The seven of them proceeded toward Dumbledore's office. Eoin Bryan was so daunted by the idea of having a private conversation with the Headmaster that he carelessly forgot to jump a trick stair. Dumbledore smiled amusedly and flicked his wand to liberate him, and the remainder of the excursion was spent by Dumbledore animatedly informing Sigmund how to disable some of the more inconvenient architectural designs of the castle. Apparently, Dumbledore and Sigmund were on pleasant speaking terms. Sigmund, in fact, had merited several trips to his office, most of them due to failed endeavors to explore the Forbidden Forest. _Honestly_, thought Minerva, _what lunatic finds a highly dangerous forest, coins it the "Forbidden Forest," and then plants a school next to it so it serves as a veritable invitation for troublemaking students to nearly get themselves killed?_

Dumbledore calmly stated the password when they reached the stone gargoyle sentinel. He had changed it from the night before, apparently, and it now reflected some other brand of candy that Minerva had never partaken of. However, Dumbledore's password choices launched a discussion between the Headmaster and Shannon, who was evidently a Honeydukes connoisseur of sorts.

When they reached the circular room, Dumbledore conjured six squashy armchairs – five facing his desk and one beside his own chair – and motioned for them to sit down. Like Minerva had been the when she first entered Dumbledore's office (although it had been next to the Transfiguration classroom at the time), the students were entranced by the sheer multitude of trinkets and artifacts that populated the room. Minerva also noted that Fawkes's perch was empty.

"You all must first realize that you will not be allowed to participate in any activities that I, Professor McGonagall, or your parents find dangerous while you are still underage or in school," said Dumbledore. Rarely did he sound so strict, which had the desired effect of getting the students' attention.

"With that being said," he continued," I must have your word that you will not break this rule under any circumstances. No heroics, no risks. Not now. Not yet. Have I made myself clear?"

Dumbledore looked at each of them in turn, and they all nodded eagerly. Minerva faintly wondered to herself how long those pledges would last when the times took a turn for the worst. Among Gryffindors, Minerva had always been one of the more pragmatic, level-headed exceptions – not especially prone to rushing into things rashly – and she usually had a reasonably good hold over her temper. Others in her house, however, could not claim to possess such qualities.

"Those of you who aren't muggle-born mentioned that your parents have been suspicious of Voldemort long before now. I would like to speak with them personally sometime in the next week. I will be sending them owls this evening, if I have your permission," said Dumbledore.

"For what, sir?" inquired Ben.

"I am forming a small group of people who are interested in – how should I phrase it? – interested in giving Voldemort as much trouble as we possibly can."

"It really is that serious then," murmured Sigmund.

"What was that, Mr. Throckmore?" asked Dumbledore.

"Well, you must be concerned if you are planning on acting this preemptively."

"Having lived through and been quite involved in the worst Wizarding War to occur in nearly 500 years, I feel I may be slightly more qualified than most to assess potential threats. It would be a greater tragedy to underestimate Voldemort than to put too much faith in his ability to cause death and destruction," replied Dumbledore, his voice still somehow upbeat.

"How much of a threat do you think he poses, sir? What sort of motive does he have?" asked Adaira urgently.

Before Dumbledore could answer, Ben interrupted him. "Are we going to be permitted to use magic in self-defense? Take Adaira, for example – what if one of Voldemort's supporters come knocking and try to round her and her family up? We have to be able to do something –

Dumbledore held up his hand. "All excellent questions, and I'm sure you have more. That is why I am going to invite you to attend the first meeting of this resistance group I mentioned earlier. These questions will be discussed in detail by me, yourselves, and many others at that time. However, I must explain to you first that by agreeing to attend, while it is not a binding contract, you will be upheld to the most stringent level of secrecy, and I am going to take measures to ensure the safety of everyone involved. There is a possibility that highly unsavory individuals may wish to extract any information related to this group, and they may do so forcefully. This is an enormously serious matter, and you must be aware of the risks you assume merely by offering your silent support and attendance – "

"I'm in!" proclaimed Eoin and Sigmund in unison, both extremely enthusiastically.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, studying them appraisingly. "And that is why I am giving you a week to decide. Next Thursday, if you are interested, please arrive promptly in my office at eight o'clock in the evening. The password will remain 'Chocolate Frog,' a personal favorite of mine, if I might add. Ever since they put me on a card, I've developed a bit of a loyalty to them, and I can't resist buying at least two or three whenever –

"Dumbledore, honestly!" chided Minerva.

The headmaster smiled at the students. "Forgive an old man and his tangents. As I was saying, next Thursday at eight o'clock, if you are still interested. I must remind you again of the importance of keeping this information to yourselves. If any of your classmates come forward with questions, direct them to Professor McGonagall or their respective Head of House."

He paused, but then suddenly remembered something. "Ah! Dinner! I wholly forgot, and here I have kept you past when you should have had it in the Great Hall. Minerva, if you don't mind speaking to the House Elves in the kitchens and having them send it up to my office? I'm afraid I have business with a friend in London this evening and must be off."

Dumbledore stood from his chair and strode toward the door to his office, Minerva following closely behind. He turned abruptly to address the students again, startling Minerva so badly that she nearly tripped.

"You may let yourselves out when you have finished. It would probably be best to tell any curious housemates that you had a few questions to ask Professor McGonagall regarding your upcoming exams," advised Dumbledore, eyes twinkling. "Have a magical evening."

Minerva exited the office behind him, groaning inwardly at the headmaster's awful puns and the trust the he put in people. Especially when it concerned young people who were liable to act impulsively at the drop of a hat.

"Don't look so harassed, my dear. Your students are very well-meaning," remarked Dumbledore, pulling Minerva from her thoughts.

Minerva sighed. "That's true, Albus, but these are students that you're permitting to be dragged into a very precarious situation."

"I know, but I would rather have you and I monitor their involvement rather than –

"Rather than ignoring them, and by so doing encouraging them to take matters into their own hands?"

"Precisely my reasoning. I knew I could rely on you to muddle through the workings of my addled brain."

They reached the bottom of the spiral stairs and Minerva left in the direction of the kitchens.

"Wait a moment?" called Dumbledore. Minerva stopped and spun around to face him.

"What is it?" she asked, perhaps too sharply.

Dumbledore smiled. "Apologies. I should have remembered earlier. When are you planning on paying a visit to Alastor Moody?"

"I managed to discover today that he's off duty on Saturday, so after I pry myself away from the house elves' clutches, I'll owl ahead. I can't be sure he'll receive the correspondence, though. Even while we were in school, he was screening his mail for jinxes and poisonous powders," answered Minerva. With that, she wished him a pleasant trip to London and prepared herself to be assaulted by a current of hypersensitive mythical creatures in the kitchens.

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><p><strong>Another Author's Note<strong>: Please review! Please? (Oh, and that repeated quote at the end of that previous chapter was added accidentally. Now you see why I need a beta).


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note**: I am blaming the prodigal nature of this update on all of the exciting paperwork and adjustment nonsense that comes with starting the new semester. Nevertheless, I combined what originally was two chapters into one for you, so now you get a longer update.

**Disclaimer**: Could never hope to be as talented as J. K. Rowling...

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 3<strong>

1972

The next morning, Minerva woke up early, as usual. When she was younger, she had jumped at every opportunity to sleep in, as she had a habit of staying up to dreadfully late hours of the night, often for no reason at all apart from the fact that she could. As an adult, however, Minerva woke up early out of guilt. She did not want to act like a stupid teenager, arranging her schedule to stumble out of bed at the last possible moment. Unfortunately, she was never able to shake her other immature habit of being the last soul in the castle to go to bed in the evenings. It was probably taking years off her life, but she didn't much care – being decrepit old crone would hardly suit her, anyway.

She waved her wand, lighting the candles that lined the walls of the room. Years ago, she had decorated her rooms, which had come with almost entirely dark mahogany wood paneling and furniture, with her family's tartan. She had also added further accents of dark green and red, along with even a bit of gold here and there, especially lining the large bay window that faced the Black Lake. The décor, admittedly, was shamelessly Scottish and tended to strongly remind of Christmas. However, Minerva didn't mind, as she herself was quite proud of her heritage and happened to like Christmas quite a bit, thank you very much. Hardly anyone else was ever in her personal quarters to criticize it, anyway.

Minerva reached for her teaching robes, only to be interrupted by the highly obnoxious portrait that guarded the concealed entrance to her rooms.

"Casual Friday, Minerva! Wear something a bit more fun!" exclaimed William McGonagall. The older man with chin length, mousy brown hair seemed prepared to leap out of the frame in his enthusiasm. Minerva was often grateful that this was not possible.

"Are you implying that I'm not fun to begin with?" replied Minerva dryly.

The portrait fell silent for a few moments and a concentrated look appeared on his face.

"A branch which cometh from my vine 'tis always divine!" declared William in a triumphant voice. "Although, if you cover up a vine with those shapeless sacks you always wear, it doesn't look as good."

"Thank you, Lord Tennyson," muttered Minerva. Her clothes weren't _that_ unflattering. "And I am _not_ related to you, William. We've been over this."

William appeared not to have heard her, for he was looking off into the distance. "You know, I was considered for the position. Had my services not been needed elsewhere, the King was to appoint me…"

Minerva shook her head and left for breakfast.

* * *

><p>After her last class had finished, Minerva rushed to clean the chalkboards and gather the homework the third-year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs had turned in at the start of class. Sometimes, she cursed herself for assigning such volumes of homework, mostly because she had to grade it. Still, Minerva would not settle for less than her students' best, and, likewise, she was determined to put in enough effort to teach even the most reluctant troll of a student. She stowed the papers in her office, locked it up (although the protective charms were more likely to deter any trespassers than the mere lock), and returned to her rooms to hunt for some muggle clothing.<p>

As to be expected, William was remained enthusiastic and full of unhelpful remarks when she began sifting through her wardrobe for a suitable outfit.

"A shirt…ah, to find one with the absence of dirt. Must be alert to find one that is pert and fitting!" hummed William in singsong. He was scarcely a better vocalist than he was a poet.

Minerva was always fairly shocked by the fact that nearly seventy years contained in a picture frame with nothing but spare time and a castle of resources had done literally nothing to improve his ability to write poetry. Lately, he had been endeavoring to capture what he called a "modernist flair," which usually composed of him neglecting to put a beginning or end to his poems, in favor of having the listener "witness the raw emotion." Minerva noted that these attempts had resulted in nothing apart from short gasps of prattle littered with banal rhyme schemes. At least he had given up his desire to channel Emily Dickinson…that had been both morbid and tragically worse than the usual tripe he spouted off.

"What do you think, William? Red or green?" asked Minerva absently, proffering two short-sleeved blouses that were surely in style – fifteen years ago.

Unsurprisingly, William's only response was. "Poor dear Fred, lost in red, quite a chipper young lad was he and three—!"

Minerva pulled on the emerald green blouse and a pair of black trousers. After a few minutes of sifting through her jewelry box, she even found a pair of large gold hoops that set off her face nicely. She grabbed a small black purse that was large enough to hold her wand and a wallet, and left her room quite unceremoniously. However, she doubted her poet laureate would notice her absence for at least another hour.

A few students that Minerva passed as she briskly strode down the corridor gave her odd looks. They certainly were not accustomed to seeing their middle-aged Transfiguration professor clad in Muggle clothing, her hair not quite as tightly fastened as it normally was. Despite the minor psychological trauma done to the children, the clothes were really quite unavoidable. She had promised her brother Malcolm that she would collect his eldest daughter from a muggle primary school, and parading into the classroom in her robes would hardly bring her into the teacher's good graces.

Once off the grounds, Minerva apparted to Edinburgh, where her niece attended primary school. She arrived in the usual dank alleyway that she selected years ago as an apparition point. Only once had she ever come upon another soul in the general vicinity, and the individual was inebriated to the point of assuming her appearing out of nowhere was a clear sign of an alien invasion. Luckily, no such drunkards were populating the area that afternoon, and Minerva proceeded pleasantly on her way.

It was only a ten minute walk through Edinburgh until Minerva found herself standing outside her niece Murron's primary school. Last year, Minerva had surprised the girl by coming to pick her up, and Murron had been so ecstatic that she caused quite the scene in front of the class and line of parents, as well as up and down three blocks from the school to the nearest bus stop. Minerva had vowed never to do it again, but Malcolm had mentioned that Murron's teacher this year "had it in for her." As to be expected, Minerva intended to evaluate the situation for herself…only to ensure that the teacher was acting fairly, of course.

Minerva waited inside the building in the narrow hallway, which was lined with a display of the children's art projects, and waited for the bell to ring and for the children to scramble out of the rooms. When Murron spotted Minerva among the crowd of parents, she let out a shriek and nearly trampled a few of her classmates as she ran at Minerva to hug her.

"Auntie Minerva!" squealed Murron exuberantly. Minerva's eldest niece had long dark hair and dark eyes, very much like Minerva's brother Malcolm in appearance. "You came to surprise me today, like last year!"

"Yes, it seems I have. Did you have a good day?" asked Minerva, taking the six-year-old's hand and guiding her to the side of the hall so the others could filter past them.

"Oh, yes, yes, yes! We had our music lesson today – that's my favorite – and I finished my craft! Do you want to see it?"

"Yes, darling, of course. Now, why don't you sit on the bench here and get it out of your bag, and I'm going to have a word with your –"

Minerva's plan to intimidate the teacher into having a discussion with her was suddenly expedited as a frazzled young woman with curly blonde hair rushed out of the classroom looking quite positively out of her mind.

"I need to speak to you!" said the teacher loudly.

Minerva frowned slightly. "About what, may I inquire?"

"About Murron! Really, there are some things that are just not right about your girl here!" huffed the teacher, her voice reverberating in the now empty hallway.

"Of course," replied Minerva icily. "Murron, wait here. If I see that you've moved, there will most certainly be consequences. Am I understood?"

"Yes," replied Murron, fidgeting already but rummaging in her bag in search of the craft.

Minerva followed the young woman into the classroom. It was a nauseatingly cheerful affair, with cutouts of cutesy farm animals and puppies lining the walls. Occasionally, the decorations were punctuated with a dragon or two, which Minerva thought was quite the odd deviation from grinning rainbows and sickeningly sweet ducklings. On the wall near the chalkboard was a large photo labeled "Miss Appletree's Class – 1971-1972" that was taken on the play structure on the playground. The children were all gathered together in a clump. That is, all of the children except Murron, who was perched on the top of the highest slide several feet above the rest of the children, grinning mischievously.

The teacher looked quite preoccupied with puffing tetchily about the room, occasionally pausing to grab large tufts of her hair and pull. Eventually, though, she summoned the good sense to invite Minerva to sit across from her in one of the frilly, plush chairs near the children's reading nook. How sensible children were expected to learn in that environment was quite beyond Minerva.

"What is it that you needed to discuss?" prompted Minerva, adopting a genteel sort of politeness that everyone who knew her halfway decently recognized as a sign that her patience was being tried severely. The teacher, like many before her who had been subjected to this tone, failed to notice the muscle on her jaw that was beginning to twitch.

"Murron, obviously! Have you gotten any of my letters?"

"No." Well, perhaps Malcolm and Elspeth had, but Minerva certainly hadn't received them.

"That girl is a lunatic! Never have I ever had a student so misbehaved!" exclaimed the teacher.

"Hmm," began Minerva, fixing the young woman with an icy glare. "You see, Madam, I myself am a teacher. Usually, when I arrange individual meetings with family members of my students, I make it a policy to provide specific areas of concern, rather than make claims like the ones you have been so kind as to share with me."

Miss Appletree was distinctly ruffled. "_Well_, if you had read my letters, you'd know! I'm trying to manage an entire class, and Murron always sets the rest of them off! Just before the Christmas holiday, I held her in during the afternoon recess period. I left the room because my fiancé – well, that's not important. As I was saying, I left the room for only a minute, and I come back to find this horrid _things_ plastered to the ceiling! I've tried everything to remove them, but they simply will not come off. Murron wouldn't say how they got up there, but she had to have been involved somehow!"

The teacher gestured upward wildly. Observing the ceiling, Minerva realized that the ferocious, fire-breathing dragons she had been admiring earlier were the subject of Miss Appletree's outrage. Apparently, there was a more sinister explanation for the change from smiling piglets wearing party hats.

"You think that Murron put them up?" asked Minerva darkly. "Honestly, Madam! Murron is less than half the height of the ceiling. You mean to tell me that she has managed to jump up to affix the posters to your ceiling? Surely, they must have been stuck there with a powerful sort of adhesive, if you cannot take them down. Are you suggesting that Murron did all of this in the 'minute' that you _left her unattended_ in your classroom?"

Miss Appletree made a scoffing sound. Minerva stifled a smile. Actually, Murron probably had been responsible for the improvement in the scenery. Minerva had to mentally remind herself that, despite Murron's clear aptitude for transfiguration and sticking charms, it would be unwise to express any open admiration for her niece's skill.

"It's not just that! This spring, we had an incident wherein the children's lunches were being stolen. One student, Bruce Caudill, told me in confidence that Murron was the culprit," said Miss Appletree. She pointed at the child in the class picture, who was a piggy little boy with a surly expression. The children positioned nearby seemed more than a trifle wary of their proximity to him. Somehow, Minerva doubted the little informant was of the particularly trustworthy variety.

"A few days later, there was another _peculiar _incident. The children were washing up for their snack, and the soap stained little Bruce's hands red. Everything he touched after was dyed as well, and it took weeks for his mother to wash it off! It positively ruined my new sundress, and I got complaints from several parents about their children coming home with red handprints on their knapsacks. It had to have been Murron!" shrieked Miss Appletree.

Minerva raised her eyebrows and felt her mouth begin to thin. Was logic really this impossible for some people?

"I do apologize Miss Appletree, but I'm afraid you don't have a scrap of actual proof of any insubordination on Murron's part. I understand that when one is just beginning to teach, it can all be very hard to deal with. Perhaps the administration will pay for a few therapy sessions this summer to help you cope. Be consoled that you only have three more weeks with Murron, and then you'll be rid of her forever." _And she of you_, Minerva added mentally. "Good day."

With that, Minerva sent Miss Appletree another very cold look and exited the unbearably kitschy room without a glance back to the shocked teacher. Malcolm was right: that woman had a definite dislike for Murron. Still, she would have to remind Murron of things like the unfairness of life and the Statute of Secrecy on their bus ride to the countryside outside of Edinburgh. When they arrived at Minerva's brother's home, she would have to suggest Malcolm get her preparatory transfiguration lessons and a decent tutor. That girl certainly demonstrated quite a bit of talent for Minerva's preferred subject.

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><p>After getting off the bus, it was only a little up the way until they reached the outside of teacher McGonagall's handsome country manor. Minerva, as expected, did indeed have the opportunity to kindly lecture Murron regarding where and when it was appropriate to express her magical abilities. (The craft Murron had been squealing about had turned out to be a very stern-looking potato with various felt and stick appendages protruding from the body. Somehow, Murron had coaxed its yarn mouth into smiling whenever she tickled its macaroni noodle toes).<p>

Minerva waved her wand in a complex motion and the white iron gate open to grant them access up the stone pathway to the vine-covered manor. Murron skipped ahead gleefully and threw open the door without preamble, shrieking to her younger sisters that Minerva was there. Before Minerva could get through the door, she was assaulted by two other small, dark-haired girls.

"AUNTIE MINERVA!" cried Catriona. She was the youngest and the only to inherit Malcolm's wife's curly hair. Minerva hugged Catriona and opened her arms to beckon over Lorna, the shy middle daughter with Malcolm's large eyes.

"Hello, girls. Let's get inside, shall we? I need to have a word with your father," said Minerva, attempting to detach the girls as she struggled up the front steps.

The entryway to the home was very pleasant and open. In fact, the entire house was decorated in rich, deep colors and oak wood. The interior was often spotless to the point of being mildly annoying, as Elspeth (Malcom's wife) was quite the ardent housekeeper and was prone to hosting dinner parties and the like.

"Minerva! No trouble getting here, I trust?' called a deep, friendly voice.

"None at all, Malcolm. Although, I did have a mostly one-sided conversation with Murron's teacher. She may have thought I was Elspeth," replied Minerva, turning around. Malcolm, having come home from work, had apparated to the gate just behind them.

Malcolm came into the entryway, still wearing his formal work robes and smiling broadly at his sister. He leaned in to embrace her.

"And, is she still alive?" he whispered so that the girls could not hear.

"Don't be stupid. There's not a chance I'd confess to you if I did her in," said Minerva dryly. "I'll tell you later when there's less of an eager audience."

Malcolm chuckled.

"I sent an owl ahead for Elspeth to make an early supper, if you don't mind," he said, ushering her toward the dining room. "I'll be back downstairs soon. Make yourself comfortable."

Minerva settled herself into a dining chair and busied herself with peering at the expansive portrait collection of her Scottish ancestors that adorned the pale gold walls. Unlike the harebrained poet that resided in her personal quarters, these pictures had the sense not to trouble her with senseless chatter and, Merlin forbid, poetry readings. Soon, a pale, petite witch with strawberry blonde hair came through the arched doorframe and cleared her throat politely.

"Minerva! So lovely to see you, dear," said Elspeth warmly, sitting down at the massive dining table opposite Minerva. Malcom's wife was immaculately dressed, as always, and she like Malcolm was consistently composed and charming.

"Well, thank you for allowing me to impose," replied Minerva. "You didn't have to fix dinner – I could have eaten something at the castle just as easily."

"Not at all! I was happy to! How are things at Hogwarts?"

"Fairly uneventful, which is saying something, what with it being so close to the end of term. The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher has been rather abysmal, so the rest of us have had to make some additions to our curricula to salvage the students' education. Really, I don't know how Dumbledore expects the students to haves a grasp of the subject when we haven't been able to hold down a teacher for the past decade or so."

"There's really been no one willing to stay on?"

"Sadly, no. And, there's been some rather suspicious circumstances surrounding a few. The professor we had three years ago disappeared over the summer, and the one the year before was arrested for something to do with Muggle tax evasion. The professor we had this year announced last week that he has 'urgent business elsewhere' next year, and so now there's an opening again." Minerva sighed. "People are beginning to think the job's cursed."

Elspeth narrowed her eyes a little at this. "Surely not," she replied brightly. "If Malcolm or I meet anyone who seems to be interested and qualified, we'll be sure to mention it."

"That would be appreciated. I apologize for complaining, Elspeth, but we're scrambling to finish the year out, and we're short an instructor again. The students sit there exams this coming week. So, you we will soon know if any of them managed to retain anything I taught all year."

"Don't worry about it. You have reason to complain. And, besides that, you're a fantastic professor, Minerva. I'm sure the students are learning mountains more in one year from you than what they did from your predecessor."

Minerva smiled. What Minerva liked about Malcolm and Elspeth is that they managed to be sincere despite their posturing. Whether or not Elspeth still said things like that to people she wasn't very keen on seeing, didn't feel happy to cook for, or thought were dreadful teachers was something Minerva didn't like to consider.

Still, the hospitality and encouragement abundant in Elspeth was an ideal complement for Malcolm. Malcolm was a politician of ever-increasing potential within the Ministry. Over the years, he had been slowly making a name for himself in the Department of International Magical Cooperation and had risen in popularity, despite his very fervent calls for Muggle-born equality in Britain, not to mention foreign Wizarding governments. Before Malcom had made headway in his career a few years after the end of the Wizarding War, Minerva had often said that she hated all politicians. Now, she often said that she hated all politicians – save one.

That very politician reentered the room then, somewhat dressed down, but still businesslike as always. The girls flanked him and hopped over to Minerva

"Are you staying for dinner?" asked Lorna earnestly.

"If you insist."

With that, Elspeth instructed the girls to sit at the table, and waved her wand so that the food floated into the dining room from the kitchen and placed itself on the table. They began eating and dinner conversation mostly consisted of a description of Malcolm's recent trip to France. After he had worn out this topic, Minerva told a few amusing anecdotes regarding various inept Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers, which entertained even Catriona. Later, Elspeth magicked the dishes away from the table and began to order the girls from the room when Minerva stopped her.

"Just a minute, Elspeth. Girls, come here – I've got something for you."

"I knew you did! Da told us not to ask because it's not polite, but I knew you wouldn't forget!" exclaimed Murron as she leapt out of her chair to sit beside Minerva at the table. Before she could stop them, Lorna was bent over her shoulder, and Catriona had climbed into her lap.

"I picked these up at Honeydukes for you," explained Minerva, conjuring three small, pinstriped boxes from thin air.

"Honeydukes!" squealed Lorna, taking one. "What are they?"

"They're called Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans. Now, you have to guess what taste each one has, and, I'll warn you that they aren't all very normal flavors."

"What if it's insects?" asked Murron, aghast.

"The surprise is part of the appeal. Now, off you go. Eat them out in the back lawn," answered Minerva. She smiled as Murron raced outside first, followed by a wary-looking Lorna, and Catriona, who had already been putting handfuls into her mouth curiously, unconcerned about things such as flavors.

Malcolm laughed. "That could be fairly tragic. A lot of people don't like them because they were traumatized at an early age."

"Just because you were thick enough to eat the rotten fish one doesn't mean your daughters will. But, honestly, I'm not here to argue tastes, as you have doubtless assumed," said Minerva, her voice lowering.

"Of course," said Malcolm. He leaned forward on his elbows with interest.

"I'm here on behalf of Professor Dumbledore, mostly. To get straight to the point, he's quite worried about – " Minerva glanced out the window " – about You-Know-Who."

"'You-Know-Who?'" repeated Elspeth, confused.

"She means Voldemort, darling," clarified Malcolm very quietly. Elspeth winced.

"Yes, him. As I was saying, Dumbledore is very concerned about You-Know-Who, and, to be frank, so am I. Dumbledore feels the situation is going to only escalate in future, and he's not confident in the Ministry's willingness to take this threat seriously, not to mention it lacking the resources and skill to handle it. We want to act preemptively."

Minerva paused and studied Malcolm, who looked contemplative.

"So, Dumbledore is forming a secret society to address with this very issue. The first meeting is scheduled for Thursday, and I wanted to approach you to determine whether or not you are interested. Of course, attendance Thursday evening isn't a binding contract, but a time for discussion. Still, Dumbledore considers secrecy a matter of utmost priority." By this time, Malcolm was eying her as if she was some sort of a political adversary. "I've assumed that you have been suspicious of … You-Know-Who for quite some time, and your assistance would be valued, as you frequently –

"—travel out of the country on legitimate business and have various political contacts. Well, Minerva, you really did miss your calling in Slytherin."

Minerva's eyes narrowed and she fixed him with a glare. "Alright, Malcolm. If you're not interested, I understand. I just expect that you not mention the nature of my visit tonight and –

"Perhaps you didn't miss your calling after all," interrupted Malcolm. "Don't jump to conclusions. I happen to be _quite_ interested in your proposition. I was being subtle, which, clearly –

"Stop while you're ahead, Malcolm. You forget that I still can defeat you in an argument," Minerva said sharply.

Malcolm chuckled, diffusing the tension with practiced ease. "Very well. It will just be me in attendance, though," he said, glancing at Elspeth. "We can write off my absence with business well enough, but for Elspeth to come with me would be more difficult…"

"I understand," replied Minerva quickly. She expected, however, there may have been other reasons Malcolm kept unmentioned. "Dumbledore has arranged for it to be held at eight o'clock at the McKinnon's residence. Are you familiar with the location?"

"Irving and Caroline? Oh, certainly. He works for the Ministry."

Minerva sighed.

"Has Dumbledore been sending you out on a lot of these missions?" questioned Malcolm, a knowing look dawning on his face.

"Not many yet. He's come up with another means of communication, which I'm sure he thinks is quite clever. Tomorrow I have to make a house call to Alastor Moody, and I thought practicing on a less-dangerous party would prepare me for it," answered Minerva wearily.

"Alastor Moody, the mad Auror? I don't envy you for having that job. Still, you'll manage."

"I do hope so. Also, might I borrow the girls Monday or Tuesday evening? I have to visit an acquaintance regarding a similar bit of information, and she may require a token more persuading than you did."

"Tuesday," said Elspeth. Minerva was quite surprised she had still been paying attention. Sometimes, due to the fact that Elspeth was a politician's wife, she gave the impression of being fairly harmless. Minerva knew this was about as true as people's assumptions that, due to the fact Dumbledore was indecently obsessed with sweets and tended to go off on useless tangents, he was losing it.

"Again, thank you. I should probably be going soon. I was telling Elspeth earlier that the students have exams this coming week. So, I need to be available for questions in the library," explained Minerva. "Dinner was lovely. Can I help you with the dishes, Elspeth?"

"No, you can't! It was good to have you!"

"You look like you haven't slept in days, Minerva – just go back to the castle, and I'll see you on Thursday—"

After a bit of convincing and insisting, Minerva was allowed to assist Elspeth in tidying up the kitchen. Malcolm brought in the girls, who could be heard from the hall squealing "that one tastes like shepherd's pie" or "that was NOT lemon!" Soon, Minerva said goodbye to each of their nieces, promising to see them on Tuesday, and thanked her brother and sister-in-law for dinner again.

Minerva left promptly afterwards, pausing before apparating only to be glad for a few seconds that Malcolm was often was an exception to the ultimatums she made. Just as Malcolm was the only politican she didn't dislike on principle, he was also probably the only Slytherin she knew who wasn't unduly difficult to convince to get involved with risky projects of this caliber.

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><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: If you find this chapter a bit odd, blame it on character development and a desire to see Minerva furious. I couldn't resist introducing some of Minerva's family members. Also, "Sir" William Topaz McGonagall, is in fact a real historical figure, often renowned for being the worst poet to ever write in the English language. The irony of having him guarding Minerva's quarters was frankly too enticing to be resisted. I came upon William McGonagall very accidentally one day while surfing the Internet, and he so clearly belongs in Rowling's universe that it's almost indecent. I highly recommend looking him up if you want a laugh. (Note, I was delighted to see on Pottermore that JK Rowling shares similar sentiment). It should also be noted that if William McGonagall turns up again in this story, his poetry is unlikely to improve. Any serious attempts of mine at poetry have turned out only slightly better than Sir McGonagall's repertoire.

PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE review!


	4. Chapter 4

**Author****'****s**** Note**: Yes, I know I'm pathetically late in updating. But, now it's Thanksgiving (yes, I'm an American), and so I've got the weekend "off" from college… meaning I have a couple of hours that aren't consumed with working, reading boring texts, and writing long papers. (It hasn't been a particularly fascinating semester, save for the one class that pertains to my major, but I'm ranting now). At any rate, here's a chapter. I do hope you like it.

**Disclaimer**: To be quite honest, I think it's quite obvious that I'm not J. K. Rowling.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 4<strong>

1972

The next morning, Minerva woke early with her usual amount of reluctance and sighed bitterly as she glanced out the window. It was raining. Although she had always been fascinated by the sight of rain and thunderstorms, it was another thing entirely to be facing possible gruesome death at the hands of a legendarily paranoid auror while also appearing to have drowned in the Black Lake. Minerva chose a set of fire-retardant robes and a waterproof cloak before adjusting her hair and glasses. Then, ignoring William McGonagall's fervent recitation one of his most noted horrible poems, "The Tay Bridge Disaster," Minerva escaped from her rooms.

She sat down at the High Table and disregarded the mild staring from Pomona and Filius as she hurriedly ate her breakfast, even though the upcoming meeting (altercation) with Alastor Moody had severely put her off her appetite. Minerva refused to entertain any latent musing over whether or not the lukewarm porridge would be her last meal. As she made to leave, Dumbledore gave her a look that suggested pity of some sort. Minerva returned the gesture with a look that bordered on homicidal. It was Dumbledore, after all, who had volunteered her for the potentially life-threatening task.

Minerva half-jogged down the sloping grounds. Fortunately, the cloak proved effective in blocking most of the rainwater, but Minerva shuddered to think what the humidity was doing to the state of her hair. She reached the Hogwarts-Hogsmeade boundary and promptly apparated to a dusty alleyway on the outskirts of London.

Or, at least, it was usually dusty. Today, it seemed the severity of the weather in London rivaled the Scottish downpour and had turned absolutely torrential. A fierce gale, which seemed to come from all sides including straight upward from the earth, had transformed the dust into something of a muddy river, which Minerva had the good fortune of being ankle-deep in.

Minerva waded out from the mudslide and made her way down the cracked sidewalk, dodging miniature tornadoes of newspapers that had been ripped from rubbish bins along the road. She scarcely could see a block in front of her through the storm. To add to the excitement, every few steps it seemed her boot became submerged in a puddle approximately the size of the Thames, and she would slide for a few paces before regaining proper equilibrium. Sniffing irritably, Minerva finally reached Alastor Moody's – _house_.

It was obvious that Alastor had done a considerable amount of redecorating since she her last visit a decade ago. Now, his bungalow was completely plastered with mismatched segments of tin roofing, apart from one hexagonal window that was likely a two-way mirror. Minerva strongly suspected Alastor had magically reinforced them, as each rain drop that approached the top of house was mysteriously incinerated. Further, what remained of the flooded front lawn contained a flock of animated vibrantly pink lawn flamingos that turned to glare at Minerva as she tentatively encroached upon the front walk. A few periscopes popped up from beneath the ground and began bobbing around the yard in pursuit of any intruders.

As soon as her heel landed on the pulverized stepping stone, Minerva gripped her wand as what she expected to happen inevitably did. Each of the ratcheted tin roofing pieces abruptly turned and realigned so that a very light spotlight was reflected on Minerva. Then, a painfully loud caterwauling charm was set off, and the formerly peaceable avian sentinels charged at her, their plastic eyes blazing. Minerva concluded that, when it came to real or (mostly) imagined threats, Alastor Moody seemed to have absolutely no regard for the Statute of Secrecy. How Muggles fifty miles away would not become alarmed the noise, as well as the fountain of lava that had erupted from a spout on Moody's roof, was beyond her.

"ALASTOR!" shrieked Minerva, attempting to repel the flamingo militia that was rapidly closing in. "FOR MERLIN'S SAKE, I WROTE AHEAD THREE TIMES!"

The hem of her waterproof cloak burst into flames as it was hit with the spew of magical lava, and Minerva threw it off onto the birds, which deterred them effectively. But, the volcanic ash was now falling from the sky and pelting her with more vigor than the rain, and Minerva could barely see, let alone hear…

"LET ME IN!" she bellowed. "LET ME IN THIS INSTANT, OR I'LL – "

The impending threats of dismemberment, castration, and whatever else Minerva could come up with were cut short when a chasm opened in the beneath her soaking, soot-covered feet. She was falling down a tunnel, and then she landed in an undignified heap. Peering around, it was impossible to distinguish the dimensions or location of wherever she was, mostly because it was completely coated with mirrors. Minerva glared at the thousands of sopping wet, frizzy-haired Minervas with lopsided spectacles, and they all glared back with parallel intensity.

"ALASTOR! THIS DOES NOT QUALIFY AS 'IN,' YOU SWINE!" she screamed.

This method of communication proved successful. A few seconds later, one of the mirrored walls retracted into the ceiling and standing before her was Alastor Moody. He was clad in his brown leather travelling cloak, and he grimaced at her from behind a mane of dark, grizzly hair.

"Prove your identity," he growled, pointing his wand uncomfortably close to her nose.

Minerva scowled but promptly transformed into her animagus form, and then became her bedraggled human self again.

Moody's expression immediately changed, and Minerva could swear he almost smiled.

"Nice to see you, Minerva," he said.

Minerva nodded curtly but did not stop glowering at him.

"Got those birds a few years ago. The color's nice and deceptive, but they're not supposed to swarm like that – just peck individually. They haven't seen anybody on the property except me since I bought them, though. I expect that's the cause of the pent up rage," he mused thoughtfully.

"I can't imagine why you have so few visitors," said Minerva dryly. "Your hospitality and charm is somewhat hard to resist."

Alastor gave her a crooked smile. "All part of the façade, Minerva. Got to keep them on their toes."

"You might be a bit more popular," she continued, now more heatedly, "if you would read your mail." Minerva serious doubted most owls would have the gall to contend with Moody's home defense system. "You know, I bet only about fifty percent of the world is trying to lace letters to you with bubotuber pus. The rest of us may just wish to inform you of an upcoming visit so that they say, perhaps, AREN'T NEARLY SCALDED BY LAVA OR BRUTALIZED BY A FLOCK OF FLAMINGOS!"

"But, I did get your last letter," he said, mildly confused.

"Oh, really? Forgive me, Alastor, but your kind welcome somehow lead me to think otherwise."

"But I let you in, didn't I?"

Minerva sighed irritably. There was no use reasoning with paranoid old conspiracy theorists like Alastor Moody. At least she had survived fairly unscathed; the fire-retardant robes had proved one of the best ideas she had had in months. She shuddered at the thought of what she would have had to say to Poppy if she came into the hospital covered in third-degree burns and volcanic ash.

"I can see that this is going nowhere," she murmured. Then, speaking more loudly, she said, "Well, thank you for giving me audience, despite your creative attempts to murder me on my way in. Have you managed not to destroy the teapot I gave you years ago?"

"Oh, I still have it," replied Alastor proudly. Then, cleared his throat. "Tea, Minerva?"

"That would be lovely."

He held out his hand for her proceed up the narrow staircase before him.

"It would probably be best for you to go ahead of me, Alastor. I don't want an acromantula to emerge from the floorboards and devour me if I forget to spin around eight times and sing 'God Save The Queen' on the fourteenth stair."

Alastor gave her a cold look, murmuring something like "not that crazy, stupid woman…" as he went ahead and disabled spells before Minerva consented to mount the first step.

Despite outward appearances, the main level of the house was remarkably cozy. Minerva sat and waited patiently (for her) on the sofa near the fireplace after Alastor had assured her that he had disarmed all the jinxes and hexes. The walls were lined with striped teal and cucumber-green wallpaper – one of the few residual features that had survived the purge Alastor had subjected the house to after he purchases it from an ailing muggle woman decades prior. After casting a drying charm on her robes, she shifted closer to the fire to warm her freezing hands.

Minerva graciously accepted the cup of tea when Alastor returned, glad to have the distraction. He sat settled himself awkwardly on a wooden rocker and took a long, indulgent drink from his hip flask. Whatever he was consuming, Minerva doubted it was as innocuous as the musty tea Minerva had been offered.

"This is about Voldemort," said Alastor gruffly.

"Yes. It is." A stony silence fell over the sitting room before Minerva swallowed and pressed on. "What does the Auror department think about him?"

"They're bloody idiots. The whole lot of them," growled Alastor. "I've told them time and time again, but no one is willing to call him with anything above 'serial serious offender' status."

"I think it's quite plain he's more of a threat than that."

"Of course he is. Still, the older administration is afraid of another Grindelwald... They don't want have to suffer another war in their lifetime – bury their families, train up again, deal with hysteria. And so they ignore the risks. Bloody ridiculous…"

"What about the field aurors?" inquired Minerva. She had not expected Alastor to readily supply so much information, but she was perfectly happy to take advantage of his conversation, even if he was approaching a full-on rant.

"Most of them are the same way. Terrified. But, there's me, and couple of the new recruits – Frank Longbottom, and his girlfriend Alice. They're training under me, though, so I expect they haven't been under as much negative influence." Alastor smiled grimly. "As for when the Ministry is going to buckle its boots and face the facts… I'm not sure those codgers ever will. Or, if they do, it'll be too late, and we'll be done in. But, does anybody listen to me? Oh, no, never… Despite the fact that I've been saying all along Voldemort's going to get worse! You know, Minerva, I followed a trail a few years back, and sources reported that he was sneaking around in Albania, of all places…."

He trailed off, and Minerva quickly took up the conversation.

"I agree, Alastor, and, as you assumed, that is why I came to see you today… partly on behalf of Dumbledore, but to represent myself as well. Dumbledore isn't prepared to twiddle his thumbs in his office, so to speak, like the Ministry while Voldemort slowly gains power."

Minerva steeled herself, waiting for the onslaught of enraged yells, or otherwise the pain that would surely result from being forcibly ejected from the property… but it didn't come. Instead, Moody stared at her for a very long, unsettling moment.

"Go on," he urged brusquely.

"Certainly. To be as straightforward as possible, Dumbledore is forming a small group of persons interested in working toward a similar aim. We want to act as preemptively as possible in order to keep Voldemort at bay, to the best of our abilities. Dumbledore and I wished to know if you are interested."

Moody studied her curiously again with the same disconcerting look. Then, he spoke quite solemnly. "You and Dumbledore realize that you're unlikely to be of much use, don't you?"

"_What?_" Minerva had certainly not anticipated that response coming from someone as into reactionary as Alastor.

"This is Voldemort you're about to take on, Minerva. He's not some pansy schoolboy with a vendetta against the humankind for not understanding him. You can't fix a leaky pipe with a single piece of tape if it's about to burst," he explained grimly. "It's going to escalate, whatever you might try to do. He's been plotting and scheming for Merlin knows how long, and despite how early Dumbledore thinks he's acting, you're too late."

Minerva made an exasperated sound and rose to her feet. What had happened to him in the past decade that had warped him into a fatalist? "Lovely. Take on the Ministry and Voldemort singlehandedly. If you'll disarm your convoluted little homemade bombs, avian terrors, and natural disasters, I'll be on my way—"

She was suddenly interrupted by a scoffing noise. "Sit back down, woman! I'm going to help you and Dumbledore with your secret society. I wanted you to be aware of the facts."

Of course, she had forgotten how taken Alastor was with giving de-motivational lectures.

"I wish people would be more direct! This is serious business!" she exclaimed irritably.

"Everything is serious business with you, Minerva," Alastor remarked, a wry grin forming on his face.

With that Minerva provided the rest of the details regarding the meeting on Thursday and demanded Alastor send her a new, expensive waterproof cloak for Christmas. She also requested he loan her an umbrella and that he point out the exit that would allow her to vacate the premises while still maintaining possession of all of her necessary limbs. To the first, he agreed, but for the latter he merely gestured out the single window in the kitchen. The weather had cleared considerably, and faint rays of sunlight were beginning to emerge from behind dense cloud cover.

"Thursday, then, Alastor," said Minerva crisply, depositing her empty teacup on kitchen counter before leaving. "And, I advise you procure some decent tea. Preferably some that was grown after the turn of the century."

Alastor showed her to the door, muttering something about Minerva having the disposition of a fussy old woman. Minerva left quickly and apparted as soon as she reached the intersection of the main road and the alleyway. Luckily, she had not fallen victim to any additional enchantments. She proceeded up to the hills through the castle to her rooms, grateful for increased sunlight in Scotland. Standing at her door, good-naturedly enduring William McGonagall's inane babbling, was Dumbledore. He was holding out a mug of hot chocolate for her, and he seemed quite pleased that she had survived.

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><p><strong>Author<strong>**'****s**** Note**: PLEASE REVIEW! They are very encouraging, especially when I'm writing on a less-common topic… I appreciate your thoughts. Constructive criticism is welcome, as usual. Also, I always imagined Minerva and Mad-Eye as having a complicated, explosive friendship…but still a friendship, nonetheless. It seems reasonable that they were potentially at Hogwarts together, or at least contemporaries, and so they would have a common history. This is a topic that I intend to delve deeper into as the story progresses. (Furthermore, he wouldn't be "Mad-Eye" at this point, as per the pensieve memories Harry saw of the trials when Moody still had both eyes).

PLEASE REVIEW, and a Happy Thanksgiving to any Americans reading – or to anyone else who likes to eat turkey and reflect on things they are thankful for.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note**: Following my previous post, I thought to myself, "Surely, I will be able to edit a pre-written chapter and post it during finals!" In short: I was wrong. I finished my exams three days ago and have been traveling home/visiting family for the past two. I knew today was going to be a fairly laid back Christmas, however, and so I've had it in mind for awhile to do a double-chapter post today, partly as an apology and partly as a gift to any readers that I've managed to gather up. So, after successfully commandeering brother's new bass guitar for awhile and reading the first installment of the book trilogy he received (_The Hunger Games_), I edited this chapter for you. I hope you enjoy reading it, and the next one will be posted within the next few hours.

Merry Christmas!

**Disclaimer**: I am neither rich nor British. I believe that disqualifies me from being J. K. Rowling.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 5<strong>

1972

Minerva briskly headed down the slopes from the castle, groaning inwardly. It seemed that a simple errand to discuss supply reorders with Hagrid was destined to utterly demolish any tranquility that could be had on a warm May afternoon. Merlin knew that she had earned a shred of peace after the ordeal she had been through with Alastor Moody that morning. Curse Hagrid for not responding with an owl! Unfortunately, Minerva had an inherent knack for spotting trouble in its various forms, even when she was loath to address it, and currently she had a premiere view of a scene transpiring farther down the hill. Taking a second look, however, she grew from annoyed to alarmed.

Below, resident Slytherin morons – an opinion she only held privately, of course – Crabbe, Goyle, and Mulciber had cloistered together to form a jeering clump around their ringleader Lucius Malfoy, who possessed a drastically higher level of brain activity. Also contained within the crowd was first-year Lily Evans. Minerva already felt as if she was going to be sick. No student she had ever been forced to teach even remotely rivaled the aversion she had for Lucius Malfoy, the contemptible, devious, cowardly snob that he was. Despite his prefect status, he felt no obligation to conform to the rules of the school, or even of society for that matter. Even more infuriating was his near-spotless record, owing to the fact that he was rarely punished, for he was rarely caught. Minerva quickened her pace.

Moments later, the indistinct jeering faded into a brief interlude of Lily defending herself, demanding her release and never to be bothered again. She was deftly ignored by the throng of Slytherins, who failed to hear another set of footsteps approaching hurriedly from the opposite direction. Only then did Minerva hear the word "mudblood," which prompted the most recent entrance to the conflict. Cat-like hearing did not have to be employed to register the next few comments.

"LUCIUS MALFOY! APOLOGIZE!" shouted Adaira Stirling, who was marching up to them from the direction of Hagrid's hut. Minerva noted two additional figures beside a giant rock were ascending the hill as well; they were likely Adaira's friends Ben Fenwick and Shannon Kerrigan. Shannon did not appear as keen on running, but Ben was rushing after Adaira with some intensity.

"And, who are you to demand such a thing, Stirling? I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about. Lily here has just made a serious infraction of the school rules," Malfoy drawled. Adaira's hands balled into fists, and she shook with anger.

"Yeah, she bloody kicked me in the shin," confirmed Mulciber densely. Despite his unusual ability to convince younger students to do his bidding, Minerva was routinely shocked that he proved articulate enough to pass his exams with straight D's.

Minerva was beginning to stiffen with irritation. She debated between amplifying her voice to diffuse the situation straight away, or otherwise allowing it to unfold before she reached them. The prospect of Lucius Malfoy trapped in his own circumstances was too appealing to be resisted…

"I did not 'infract' anything!" shrieked Lily. "He grabbed me and called me a …"

"Ha, ha. Can't even say it. Mudblood!" cackled Crabbe. Goyle joined in on the last word to produce a distinctly choral effect. Lily retaliated with another kick, this time aiming at Malfoy.

"FILTHY MUDBLOOD!" bellowed Malfoy.

Minerva was less than fifty paces away when he drew his wand vehemently, aiming to curse the first-year girl. Fortunately, Adaira was quicker, and his wand flew out of his hands before he could open his mouth.

Malfoy's cronies gladly accepted he provocation and began firing curses at Adaira, all of which she blocked impressively and returned with her own. Goyle was sent flailing ungracefully through the air and landed with a sickeningly thud startlingly close to the recently-placed Whomping Willow. Somehow, Mulciber utilized his mediocre combat ability to deflect a threatening purple beam of light. Adaira narrowly blocked the reprisal and, noting that Crabbe had pinned Lily against a tree, promptly transfigured his legs into ones that would more likely have been attached to a crab than an ugly teenage boy. Lily seized the opportunity to retaliate by petrifying Mulciber, and then she fled in Minerva's direction, who by this point was now yelling herself hoarse as she raced down the remaining stretch of hill.

Malfoy, having finally retrieved his wand from a patch of tall grass, began dueling with Adaira. Neither one seemed to detect Minerva's menacing demands for a halt until they both cast a spell concurrently, which caused them to fly backward and crash to the ground. Still, each leapt up and proceeded to rush back at the other, wandless.

"WHAT DO YOU TWO THINK YOU'RE DOING!" roared Minerva. "NEVER, IN ALL MY YEARS OF TEACHING—STIRLING! MY OFFICE! NOW!"

Minerva's face turned blotchy red; her knuckles, completely drained of color. For Malfoy, she pointed to Slughorn, who had been nothing more than a useless spectator upon arriving with Ben and Shannon. (His large form apparently accounted for the massive, mobile rock that Minerva had misidentified earlier).

"Miss Evans, hospital wing. Miss Kerrigan will escort you. Mr. Fenwick, please fetch another teacher to attend to Mr. Crabbe," she added, gesturing to the boy who was scuttling witlessly across the hill toward the Black Lake. Maybe he would fall in…but Minerva knew she shouldn't be too hopeful.

With that, Minerva proceeded back to the castle and then down the hall toward her office, all supply orders forgotten. Adaira was actually keeping up quite well despite her newly-accrued injuries. Minerva flung open the door, making little attempt to conceal her anger, and then slammed it closed once Adaira was completely within.

"WOULD YOU CARE TO TELL ME WHAT GOT INTO YOU?"

"You heard everything, Professor. Malfoy and his stupid friends were holding Lily captive, and they called her a ghastly name. I was merely… ensuring Lily received some form of justice. Then, they attacked her, and it's not as if I could have stood by and done nothing! I'll admit may have got a bit little carried away, but I don't see how you can punish me on principle," explained Adaira tersely. In fact, she seemed rather proud. She continued, each word punctuated with revulsion, "Malfoy is a git."

"Thank you for sharing that opinion, Stirling," started Minerva, now standing behind her desk with both palms firmly pressed on the surface. "If you saw me, a PROFESSOR, why did you not go to me to resolve the situation before you turned it into a violent altercation?"

"I don't know, Professor," answered Adaira, yet without remorse.

Minerva boiled with frustration. Adaira Stirling was a constant reminder of how Minerva had been as a Hogwarts student (although, Adaira lacked Minerva's self-restraint and was a good deal less uptight). Perhaps she was being punished for her previous misdeeds. True, had Minerva been in Adaira's position, she certainly would not have hesitated to administer her own brand of justice upon a pack of hateful Slytherins. In fact, she harbored similar sentiment toward Lucius Malfoy, if not his entire family. Abraxas Malfoy had been a conniving twit as well, and she had very much desired to hex him so that—

"Professor?"

"Sit down, Miss Stirling. You look horrid, and I won't have you fainting in my office. I've just had the floor cleaned," commanded Minerva, pointing at a chair across from her desk.

"I feel fine, Professor!" insisted Adaira, wincing slightly at the sudden, imploring movement she had made. One of the bruises on her forehead seemed to be swelling, and her left eyebrow leaked a few more drops of blood.

"It's not a question of your health so much as whether or not you can comply with a simple request!" cried Minerva exasperatedly. Her hand subconsciously rose to her head to massage her temples. "Two days ago, Stirling, the headmaster and I trust you with highly confidential information, and this is your demonstration that you can handle it?"

"Sorry, Professor," said Stirling through tightly gritted teeth.

Minerva sighed, somewhat resigned to the situation.

"Stirling?

"Yes, Professor?"

"Who taught you to perform partial-body Transfiguration?"

Adaira shifted awkwardly. "I learned it myself from a book I received over the holidays."

Minerva's eyes widened in an expression muddled by both astonishment and severe disapproval. From experience, Minerva knew it was dangerous business to be instructing oneself on complicated magical topics, especially Transfiguration. Adaira, though one of Minerva's most gifted students, was Muggle-Born, so it was highly unlikely she had outside help, and the risk was inexcusable.

"Miss Stirling, do you have any concept of the hazards you've exposed yourself to? Teaching yourself such a difficult branch of magic, though it is admirable that you are so fond of the subject, is reckless—

"But I have got a concept of the hazards, Professor! I've read all about it before going ahead, and I've been cautious, I promise! I suppose I perhaps shouldn't have transfigured Crabbe like that, but I didn't really have to concentrate much to do it. And, it was funny."

Minerva glared. "That is precisely what concerns me, Stirling! You cannot allow yourself to use volatile forms of magic on a whim, especially when you are angry!" she seethed.

Adaira nonetheless looked at Minerva with an eyebrow raised in obvious skepticism. Minerva inhaled sharply and folded her hands to prevent them from shaking.

"Why have you chosen to look at me like that, Miss Stirling?"

"Do you really want to know?"

Minerva stopped suddenly to fix the fifth year with a particularly cold glare. Unfortunately, Adaira was by now relatively impervious to Minerva's assorted means of coercion, and she tended to be especially (irrationally) bold. Knowing she was likely to be quite vividly insulted in just a few moments time, Minerva sighed and nodded, despite lingering thoughts of the state of her blood pressure.

"If you don't mind me saying, it seems like you would have done the same thing. I don't think you would have stood by if you witnessed that. So, I don't see why you can punish me."

Minerva's jaw tightened and she closed her eyes briefly to suppress her irritation before she resumed glaring at the student.

"Stirling, this has nothing to do with me! It would be irresponsible of me, as your teacher, to not be concerned for your wellbeing. And, for goodness sakes, you didn't have to hex them!" explained Minerva stiffly.

Adaira again scrutinized her, barely mollified. "Professor, don't you understand? Any ability I have for transfiguration could come in quite useful, couldn't it?"

The tone in her voice indicated that by "useful" she was not referring to O.W.L or N.E.W.T. exams, but something much graver. Minerva lowered her voice, supplemented by a flick of her wand in the direction of the door to ensure privacy.

"Professor Dumbledore has amply informed you that you cannot be assigned to tasks within the Order until you have graduated. I cannot possibly imagine why you would need to be concerned about such matters at the present time."

"Professor! What little we know about Voldemort's plans is horrifying! I don't care what happens to me if it means I can help in some way!" said Adaira hotly.

"The Order as a whole will work against Voldemort and his followers, Miss Stirling. I believe you have made it explicitly clear that you wish to assist, but your parents—

"My parents don't know what's going on."

"What?"

"I refused to tell them. My father would've taken me out of school, and my mother would fall into a state of panic. Instead, I told my father he can accept the position he's been offered in the United States. He was not going to because he and the family didn't want to leave me at Hogwarts, but I said it would be alright and only see them on the holidays as it is. It's quite the offer – he's head of a team at Boeing now. He's an aeronautical engineer," replied Adaira.

After considerable explanation about exactly what an aeronautical engineer was and why Muggles so often rode about on planes, Minerva recognized Adaira's evasive tactics and returned to the original topic.

"Stirling, I will have to write to your family," she said. "They are entitled to know what you are getting yourself into!"

"It'd be useless. I told my parents to go forward with their plans, and they'll be in Seattle by next week. I expected they were planning to move without me anyway, so they're happy…I'm happy…"

"And your deceiving them is no issue, of course," added Minerva sardonically.

"Voldemort is targeting Muggle-borns and their families, professor! I wanted my own safely across the pond before he can torture and kill them for information, or for no particular reason at all, thank you very much!" answered Adaira fiercely.

"You may think there is much you can do, Stirling, but the fact remains that you are a student!" insisted Minerva, her voice rising.

With that, Adaira, shaking with anger, extended her trembling fingers toward the desk, as if she were about to grasp her wand that lay there. Minerva's hand instinctively groped for her own wand in anticipation, but Adaira only lightly touched hers. Then, Adaira took on a very concentrated look. Feathers began sprouting from her arms, and she decreased in height by several feet, her legs disappearing into the shoes that were suddenly much too large for her. Her eyes went from a haunting gray to a bright yellow, and her mouth shrank and was obscured by the ever-increasing amount of tawny plumage.

"STIRLING!" shouted Minerva at such a volume she had never before used against a student.

Suddenly, Adaira became herself again. Minerva gripped the arms of her chair, stunned.

Adaira spoke first, in a somewhat deeper voice than usual, "I can almost do that without my wand. If you hadn't distracted me, I would've done it all the way."

"STIRLING! WHAT – WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? You could have seriously injured yourself – how long…? – IS THIS WHAT YOU MEAN BY 'HELP?" Unable to decide between expressing amazement or consternation, Minerva had opted for fury.

"Owls are very useful, you know. They carry messages."

"Of course I know that!" snapped Minerva.

"I don't imagine people pay much attention to stray cats, either. Do they, Professor?" she asked angelically, despite the look of pride that entered her glittering eyes. "Professor, if only I could train for another month or so, I would have it."

"How long have you been working on this – project – Miss Stirling?" asked Minerva, finally able to assemble a coherent sentence.

"Since Halloween, but I was preparing before. Like I said, Professor, I received a book over the summer holidays—"

"You mean to tell me that you have been attempting animagus-level transfiguration any outside help?"

"I had a book, Professor," she replied boldly. She looked Minerva in the eye, undaunted, but then smirked. "Shannon thinks I'm crazy too."

Then, without preamble, Adaira said, "Malfoy is up to something."

"Stirling – what are you talking about now?" asked Minerva, somewhat exhausted.

"Malfoy, of course! He's been hanging around the younger students quite a bit, and I want to know why. It's not as if a cretin like him is trying to be a good role model. That's what Shannon, Ben, and I were doing at Hagrid's. Shannon thought she saw Malfoy sneaking about last night, going toward the Forbidden Forest. We were hoping Hagrid had seen something, but then Slughorn turned up as we were leaving. He's always bothering me to join his Slug Club – or whatever he calls it. Ben and Shannon go, you see, but I categorically refuse to be part of that man's collection—"

Adaira trailed off abruptly, evidently realizing the tangential and revealing monologue.

"Stirling, please bring your suspicions to me in the future," said Minerva.

After more discussion, ending with Adaira swearing a solemn oath that she would discontinue her animagus practicing unless Minerva was supervising, Adaira was finally sent from the room. Minerva was in such a daze that she even forgot to give Adaira detention. Instead, she opted for making herself a very strong cup of tea. She would have to be present for dinner in an hour, and then in the library, and Merlin knew her energy reserves had been considerably depleted. If this was what war was going to do to her, she was going to have to start going to bed earlier… or start hunting for a stronger brand of tea.

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><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: If you want a long, detailed list why Minerva didn't dismember such a defiant student, I can easily supply one for you. I thought including an emotional analysis of that degree would be cumbersome in-text. (Obviously). Also, don't be alarmed: this story isn't going to be about Minerva's student being an animagus or whatnot. I'm merely attempting to develop some of the other characters, and Minerva needs to deal with someone as argumentative as she is herself. I expect it's good for her.

Please review! (It's Christmas!)


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note**: The next chapter, as promised! Record-fast update time, mind you. Merry Christmas!

**Disclaimer**: I'm not J. K. Rowling, but if any of you know her, I'd love to meet her. A lot. But, be warned, you might have to catch me when I faint.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 6<strong>

1972

Minerva had to admit that the beginning of the week could have been worse. Although it was proving to be nearly impossible to conduct both regular examinations for most students while coping with the OWLs and NEWTs for others, as usual, she was managing. The first years underwent their examinations Monday, and the results she was beginning to compile were typical: a few excelled, a few more than the few who excelled failed abysmally, and the rest exhibited fairly acceptable skills. One student even accidentally transfigured the teapot into a candle, complete with an intricate stand. Under ordinary circumstances, this would have been impressive, had the candle in question not have been apparently adverse to its magical alteration and retaliated by erupting into flames atop her antique desk.

As for the NEWT students that had been tested that Tuesday morning and afternoon, Minerva felt confident. She had heard surreptitious whispers from the examiners that the students seemed promising. Relieved, Minerva hoped the incident with Kenan McLaggen would be overlooked. In an attempt to show off, he had multiplied his transfigured pygmy goat into a massive herd which promptly escaped into the surrounding corridor. Several teachers had to be summoned to wrangle and vanish the fleeing livestock, but Minerva had survived with only minor wounds to her pride and a slightly gnawed hem to her teaching robes. That child was one chief vehicles leading to her occasional regret over being head of Gryffindor House.

After dinner, Minerva changed into a set of lightweight, olive green summer robes and proceeded to the Entrance Hall. This time, she was fortunate enough to disapparate from the Hogwarts boundary directly into Malcolm's front garden. She collected the girls, who were entirely too excited to be allowed, and bade a congenial farewell to Elspeth. Then, she found herself strolling up the cobbled walkway, Catriona's small hand clutching hers and her other two nieces bouncing impatiently in her wake.

"Where are we going?" inquired Murron, skipping ahead merrily.

"To Diagon Alley. Didn't your mother tell you that?"

"No, she's too busy!" explained Lorna. She stopped to give Minerva a rather emphatic look. "She's _always_ busy when father's gone."

"I see. Come along, Catriona. If we keep being distracted, we'll never get there," Minerva told her youngest niece, who had stopped abruptly to make curious chattering noises at a bluebird that was nesting in a nearby tree. When they reached the main road, Minerva warned the girls to remain on the walk, and, bracing herself for what would surely come next, Minerva thrust out her wand.

Very suddenly, a luridly purple triple-decker bus thundered into view. Murron squealed when she read the untidy sign on the side of the bus. Apparently, this hideous thing was one piece of information Elspeth had not been too occupied to tell the children about. Moments later, the sliding doors opened, and a young man with a shock of carroty hair emerged.

"'Ello, and welcome to the Knight Bus: emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard, or for everyday use by the common traveler," recited the conductor, not looking up from a paper that his speech was scrawled upon. "My name is Newt Scamander and I'll be your conductor for this eve—Professor McGonagall?"

By this point, Newt had glanced up from his script. His eyes were now flicking rapidly from his former professor, to each of the children, and then nervously back to his scrap of paper.

"Indeed, Mr. Scamander," replied Minerva curtly. She ushered the three girls onto the bus before her and chivvied them along as, quite understandably, they halted abruptly to gawk at the interior. Presumably, the Muggle buses they previously had traveled on didn't contain tacky velvet curtains, no seats apart from a slough of mismatched armchairs, and a deranged-looking driver with tufts hair protruding from his head in odd directions that seemed to oppose conventional gravity. Once the girls were each settled in a chair, Minerva turned to Newt, who was still performing his dizzying visual sweep of Minerva and her nieces.

"This is the exact fare, I believe," said Minerva crisply, handing him the money. "A round trip to The Leaky Cauldron for my nieces and me, if you please."

Immediately, the look of growing terror vanished from Newt's face. Minerva suppressed a grin, and then the Knight Bus jolted forward and began traversing the countryside at a speed Minerva didn't precisely care to know. She stumbled backward ungracefully, but luckily landed in a chair. The Knight Bus wasn't her favored mode of transportation by any means, but it was the most practical for travelling long distances with her young nieces.

"How come the Muggles don't see us?" exclaimed Murron. She sprawled over the back of her armchair and pressed her forehead against the grimy window, in awe of the trees and even small buildings that leapt obligingly out of their path as the bus thundered by.

"Murron! Sit down! You can see perfectly fine from your seat."

Murron obeyed, pouted, but then inevitably became interested again. "But, Auntie, why don't the Muggles notice?"

"Perhaps that is a question for Mr. Scamander, Murron. He is the conductor, after all."

Murron and Lorna both turned, wide-eyed, to Newt, who was leaning against the wall casually.

"Why can't they see us?" asked Murron breathlessly.

"Well, it's magic isn't it?" he replied, grinning toothily. "Anyway, Muggles don't see much of anything if we don't let want them to nowadays. Unless, of course, you're talking about magical creatures. Those are harder to keep quiet about, because they're in the wild and such."

"Magical animals? Like unicorns?" squealed Lorna.

A glowing look appeared in Newt's eyes. "Oh, sure, but there's loads more."

"Care of Magical Creatures was your primary interest in school, was it not?" questioned Minerva, suddenly remembering Newt's detailed excuses for doing so poorly on his Transfiguration NEWT, as well as his Filius' lamenting over one of his star Ravenclaws suddenly dropping all his marks, save one, below pass-range. He had taken after his father, Newt Scamander Sr., in his desire to travel the world in search of dangerous creatures to be nearly killed by.

"Yes, Professor."

Minerva's brow creased. "And, there is a decent quantity of magical creatures that frequent the Knight Bus?"

Newt chuckled. "Of course not. I'm saving my money, you see. I want to do research in the field like my dad. You know, go abroad to study the creatures in their natural habitats and whatnot. I'm planning to write the next edition to my father's comprehensive field guide…or, textbook, if you like. But, you see, I have to get the money first, so I can travel."

Minerva nodded.

"What's your favorite magic animal?" asked Murron.

Sensing an impending discourse on magical creatures, Minerva conjured the latest edition of _Transfiguration Today_ and began leafing through it. Newt, meanwhile, proceeded to regale the girls with highly animated accounts of a number of magical creatures (or, as he routinely referred to them, "fantastic beasts."). Minerva actually was able to analyze the first section of an article on animagus training – grudgingly considering a certain student of hers – before having to peer over her magazine to give Newt a quelling look that suggested she was not at all pleased to witness his "rough estimation" of what a dying jobberknoll might sound like. Significantly deterred, he entertained the children with demonstrations of quieter animals for the remainder of the journey. He was, in fact, in the middle of explaining the dangers of erumpet horns when the Knight Bus lurched to an unsteady halt before the Leaky Cauldron. Catriona was sent flying from her chair, but Minerva caught her and, fortunately, prevented her untimely death.

"Well, that was most enlightening, Mr. Scamander," said Minerva, shepherding her reluctant nieces from the bus.

"Bye, now!" called Newt enthusiastically, waving at the girls, before adding a polite "Good evening, Professor."

The girls filed along before her and she steered them into the dingy pub. Although Malcolm and Elspeth had taken them to Diagon Alley before, the girls were still alight with pleasure. True to its name, The Leaky Cauldron was hardly aesthetically pleasing, what with the dim lighting, scratched tables, and general grubbiness that permeated the bar. Minerva was shepherding the children past a clump of slightly inebriated old wizards gambling over a game of gobstones when the barman called out to her.

"Professor McGonagall! Pleasure to see you!" cried Tom, smiling. "And the young ones, I see! How are you there, girls?"

Murron giggled and Lorna waved shyly, but Catriona opted for ducking behind Minerva and clinging to her cloak when din softened noticeably and onlookers turned to stare. It was not just Newt Scamander who was shocked by the mere suggestion that Minerva could possibly have children.

"Passing through only, I'm afraid," she said. Then, opting to put down any gossip that would surely ensue immediately following her departure, she added, "Taking the nieces to Diagon Alley for the evening."

Tom nodded pleasantly and urged them on. With that, Minerva suppressed expressing a few choice comments regarding the nosiness of the chattering group of witches near the back, and she led the girls into the courtyard. She tapped the appropriate bricks, and, to the girls' enraptured astonishment, the brick archway began to magically construct itself. It was not long until the passageway had opened and the awestruck girls were being herded down the cobbled alley, which was still quite crowded for a Tuesday evening.

"Auntie, look!" shrieked Murron, pointing further down the avenue. "It's a _real_ Nimbus! Uncle Robert was telling us about them – they're the fastest racing brooms!"

It was only moments after Minerva restrained Murron from racing ahead when Lorna cried, "And, look at that! Auntie Minerva, can I have an owl? I like owls! Can I pet it? Please!"

"Cats are better," said Catriona dreamily. Minerva felt a surge of affection for her youngest niece.

"You can look as we pass," instructed Minerva, "but we have rather important business to do. You three are going to help me convince my friend to help me with something."

The three of them abruptly ceased their escape maneuvers and ogled at Minerva. "What do you want her to do?" they chorused.

"That is a secret," she said simply, chivvying them onward. "However, it's also a secret you're helping me. Can I trust you to keep quiet about it?"

They nodded, each standing up straighter. "How do we help?"

"Just be yourselves," replied Minerva, grinning in a way that could have been misconstrued as a grimace. "And, please, don't touch anything. My friend Emmeline – but you are to call her Madam Vance – owns a shop that sells some rather rare and expensive old things, such as furniture, jewelry, and the like. She would not be very happy if any of her items for sale were broken or damaged. So, wait quietly, and, if you do, we may be able to go out for ice cream afterward."

Their faces brightened so obviously at the possibility of sweets that Minerva almost wished she hadn't offered. Still, they skipped merrily ahead of her until they approached a classy storefront with a neat sign, emblazoned with silver letters that read "Vance Outlet of Fine Antiques and Rare Magical Artifacts." (Silently, Minerva had dubbed her friend's store as the tolerable, notably more hygienic and professional alternative to Borgin and Burkes, but even so Emmeline did not appreciate the comparison). Minerva held open the ornate door and allowed the girls step in before her. A set of small silver bells jangled to announce their arrival, but the main showroom was apparently vacant.

The children were, as anticipated, overcome with wonder upon seeing the interior of the shop. The first floor was a modest-sized affair, decorated smartly in dark green, silver, and gold. From the walls hung countless trinkets and items of a probably priceless nature, and display cases that lined the floor in sets of three and five contained organized assortments of gemstones, jewelry, and even jewel-encrusted knives. From the left side of the room, a stylish iron staircase wound its way up to the next two floors, which were designed to be open enough to be viewed from the center of the main floor. The ceiling was wrought with a crystal chandelier that sent beams of glimmering light glancing off the numerous objects within, creating a unique effect of one being within some sort of gigantic, well-lit vase.

"Auntie Minerva, can we see those up there?" inquired Catriona in a captivated voice. Predictably, the little girl had immediately fixated upon a collection of richly adorned medieval dresses on the second floor.

"Not at the moment, Catriona. Sit over there, you three, and you can look at all of the necklaces in the case behind you," ordered Minerva, not unkindly. Fortunately, the girls obliged with little fuss and perched themselves upon what appeared to be a Tudor-era set of dining chairs. Minerva soon heard Emmeline's voice emanating from a door behind the main counter, which read "Consultation."

"No, Mrs. Black. I am extremely firm in my price," Emmeline was saying. She had a very precise, characteristic voice that was perhaps a degree lower in pitch than the average woman. It made her quite intimidating, and that, coupled with her well-calculated resolve, culminated in expert bargaining ability. "This is a historic artifact, owned by the nephew of Salazar Slytherin himself, and I will not accept a low bid on it. Perhaps if you return with a higher offer in the coming week, I will be more apt to reconsider."

Chairs scraped in the consultation room, and out stormed a very ugly, offended woman. She thundered past Minerva, pretending not to notice anyone else was in the room, and slammed the door as she left. At once, Minerva's nieces ceased prattling on about the function of ruby-encrusted letter openers and looking searchingly at Minerva.

"Never you mind about her," said Minerva smoothly. "Some adults behave very badly when they don't get their way."

"Minerva, is that you?"

Emmeline's tone seemed noticeably less irritated now. She was quite elegant, as per usual, with her flowing silver and pale blue robes and her shoulder-length blonde hair curled perfectly. While at Hogwarts, it had been observed that best friends Minerva McGonagall and Emmeline Vance each conducted themselves with an almost frightening sense of dignity and composure. As students, they had privately commented that Minerva's dignity made her seem authoritative and unyielding, which she claimed was necessary to be taken seriously; Emmeline's dignity made her charming yet firm, which she insisted was good for business.

"Good evening," said Minerva.

"What brings you here?" asked Emmeline warmly, offering Minerva a chair.

"I thought I'd take pity on my sister-in-law and take the girls out for ice cream tonight. Since we were in the area, I thought a bit of culture wouldn't hurt," answered Minerva, gesturing at the historical artifacts. "Emmeline, these are my nieces: Murron, Lorna, and Catriona. Girls, this is Madam Vance."

Emmeline glanced over that the children, who smiled and greeted her shyly.

"Where do you get all of these necklaces?" inquired Murron, eyes still wide at the enormous gemstones.

"Everywhere and anywhere. Often, I must travel to throughout Europe, Africa, the Americas, and Asia to locate items such as these," explained Emmeline.

"Oh. Our Da goes abroad a lot too. He's abroad now…"

Murron trailed off as she became distracted by a whirring instrument on an elevated shelf.

"They're adorable," said Emmeline softly. Then, flicking her wand and muttering _Muffliato_, she continued. "But, honestly, Minerva, I know you aren't just here to amuse me with your nieces. You aren't that thoughtful. Did you think you were going to fool me?"

"I wasn't planning on it," replied Minerva quickly, hoping to diffuse the situation immediately. "You've known me far too long to fall for it."

Emmeline smiled wistfully at the girls. "Wish I could have had children. My dratted husband had to die young, and then I go and remarry to my work."

Minerva allowed the conversation to go silent for a minute or two before pressing on.

"You are right, though. There is something I wish to discuss with you."

"Is there?" said Emmeline, sitting back in her chair and weaving her fingers together.

"How much do you know about Voldemort?"

Emmeline blanched, very uncharacteristically shedding her self-possession. "I—I… Minerva! Sweet Merlin, would you _try_ to learn just a few social graces!"

Minerva fixed her with a glare.

"Oh, fine. Not much."

Minerva's frown deepened, and Emmeline shifted uncomfortably.

"That look may be effective on students, Minerva, but it is not going to make me talk."

"Yes, it will."

Emmeline sighed and ran her long fingers through her hair, avoiding Minerva's gaze and sitting in silence. Catriona even wandered over to Minerva to ask permission to look at a fountain on the opposite end of the room, innocently ignorant of the battle of wills ensuing in her presence. At last, Emmeline spoke again.

"Do you know who he is? His real name?"

Minerva paused. "No, actually, come to think of it. I suppose I hadn't put much stock in knowing."

"Well, I believe he could be that Tom Riddle."

Again, Minerva was forced to postpone her planned comments, sifting through old memories in attempt to recall who Emmeline was referring to. "That man, ten years or so older than us, who you were seeing for a few months shortly after graduation? He was a consultant for Borgin and Burkes, wasn't he?"

"Yes, he was, and he was an odd sort of fellow, too. He was ever so charming at first, but there was something odd about him that I couldn't place. The subtle aspects of his character were just…unsettling. I was set to break it off, but he ended it before I had the chance, saying he was going off on private expeditions."

"Just because he was disquieting doesn't make him Voldemort –

"Oh, would you let me finish!" exclaimed Emmeline. Again, Minerva was quite taken aback. Emmeline was not prone to outbursts. "I apologize, Minerva. As I was saying, he left, and I was quite content to be rid of him, but he walked into my shop a little under two years ago. It was a fairly ordinary day, and I was reorganizing merchandise when he took an interest into the finest piece I had on display. To be frank, it is the finest piece I have ever stocked – an amulet once owned by Salazar Slytherin.

"He gave numerous offers, but I did not accept any of them. Actually, I was not particularly inclined to sell it at any price, due to its worth and the sheer novelty of having it in my possession. I expected him to either attempt to bargain or leave, but he did no such thing. He stood there, staring at me as if he wanted me dead, and he left with the two other men who were with him.

"I was feeling wary as I closed that evening, so I removed the amulet from its stand and placed it in one of the hidden, high security vaults within the store. When I came in the next morning, the place had been ransacked, but only a few things were taken, and they were of little value. It simply could not have been a coincidence, Minerva!"

"Settle down, Emmeline. While I agree that it seems plausible that Tom Riddle was responsible for the break-in, how this proves he is Voldemort seems somewhat unclear—

"That's not the end of the story. Of course, I was quite disturbed by the whole situation, and since I have had more advanced security spells put into place. I thought little about it until a few months ago when names of Voldemort's alleged supporters began surfacing in the _Daily Prophet_. Both of those men who were with him have been convicted of crimes on his behalf! If Riddle isn't him, he's certainly one of his supporters. Still, you should have seen how servile those two men were! It was unnatural!"

Minerva stared blankly, quite shocked at the convincing argument. "Would you be willing to tell Professor Dumbledore that?"

"The Headmaster of Hogwarts? Why not the authorities?"

"The 'authorities' are currently not exhibiting much authority on the matter." Minerva took a deep breath as if steeling herself and pressed on. "Dumbledore is forming another organization to deal with Voldemort in a secret, much more effective manner. The reason why I came to visit you this evening was to ask if you would be interested in assisting us in this effort," explained Minerva confidently yet carefully.

Emmeline sighed and refolded her hands. "I'm not sure, Minerva. Of course, I would support you, but direct involvement seems a trifle severe at this point, don't you think?"

"Clearly not, Emmeline, seeing as I'm soliciting your help for just that," answered Minerva coldly.

"Minerva!"

"I'm sorry," said Minerva, distracting herself by watching the girls' progress in sneaking up the spiral staircase. "It very well may be just the stress of examination week coming to haunt me. Girls! What did I say about behaving yourselves?"

The girls reappeared promptly.

"Very well," continued Minerva. "Shall we go get ice cream, now girls? Say goodbye to Madam Vance… unless, of course, you'd care to join us…"

Emmeline opened her mouth to politely decline, but the girls looked at her with excited anticipation. "Just allow me to lock up first."

With that, Emmeline, Minerva, and her nieces made their way back toward the North Side of Diagon Alley toward Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor. The prospect of ice cream eliminated most of the usual distractions storefronts posed for her nieces, and so they ordered and were seated at one of the tables relatively quickly. At present, Murron was peering gleefully over a banana split roughly half the size of her head at her sisters, who each had sundaes of similar size.

As was typical of their outings, Minerva couldn't help herself from indulging her nieces to a certain extent, and the girls were ecstatic. High quantities of sugar were known to have a peculiar delayed, but tremendously powerful, effect on the girls when it was past 7:30 in the evening. For the next hour or so, Murron, Lorna, and Catriona were liable to behave as usual or otherwise fall asleep, but their hyperactivity afterwards would probably induce them to produce squeals with similar volume and pitch as that of a baby mandrake. (Minerva would be in her rooms at Hogwarts by this time, of course, and the girls would be safely returned to Elspeth).

Emmeline and Minerva discussed nothing in particular for awhile. From time to time, Minerva managed to broach the subject of Voldemort before Emmeline deflected it with questions regarding Minerva's family or her students. The younger two girls soon grew weary, their spoons dangling limply over melting puddles of vanilla ice cream and chocolate syrup in plastic bowls. Eventually, Catriona gave in and crawled up onto Minerva's lap with the intent of finding a more comfortable place to doze off. Lorna, who was much bolder than Catriona, followed suit and strategically maneuvered her chair so she was closer to Emmeline, and then she proceeded to yawn very obviously and artificially.

This ploy failed to impress Minerva very substantially, but Emmeline clearly found it rather endearing. Soon, the five-year-old was napping in Emmeline's lap. Minerva knew Emmeline loved small children, even though she never had any of her own. Perhaps that was why she found them so adorable. To be honest, Minerva was not fond of most children. She loved her nieces, of course, and she tolerated her students. Admittedly, she liked a few of them, but only a few, and five-year-olds with sticky chocolate smudges on their face hardly persuaded her to agree to join potentially-dangerous secret societies. Emmeline, however, was another case entirely…

"How can Malcolm bear to be away so often?" she asked quietly, brushing away the hair from Lorna's forehead.

"He's decided to help us gather information as well. Politically, he's well-positioned to do so."

Emmeline sighed. "I do understand that it's serious, Minerva. Still, I do not find it unreasonable of me to be hesitant to make such a radical commitment so early on…"

"It is going to affect us all in time, Emmeline. Perhaps it has already affected you already," commented Minerva seriously, alluding to the incident in the shop. She stared at her friend intensely.

"Emmeline, come to the first meeting. It is early, as you said. Mere affiliation can hardly be such a steep risk at this point in time," Minerva pointed out.

After a long pause, Emmeline groaned softly. "Alright, fine. I suppose I shall make an appearance," she replied. "I had better not regret this, Minerva."

Instead of being disconcerted by the warning tone in her friend's voice, Minerva smiled broadly and called for Murron. (Minerva had allowed her to sneak off toward Quality Quidditch Supplies without being summoned back for a few moments so as to not break the hold the moment had over Emmeline). Even though Emmeline claimed to be such a cunning Slytherin, Minerva finally felt like she was finally learning from her friend in regards to the "playing to one's advantages" technique of subtle persuasion.

Later, on the Knight Bus as she escorted her nieces back to their house in Edinburgh, Minerva analyzed her day. Overall, Minerva counted it a success: her students had not inadvertently dismembered any of the examiners, she had convinced the notoriously reluctant Emmeline Vance to join the Order, and her nieces were beside themselves with joy, although Elspeth was unlikely to be so pleased when the effects of the sugar took hold later that evening.

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><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: I hope you enjoyed the chapter! I like Minerva's nieces quite a lot, as if you can't tell. While there is only one more chapter planned in this particular section of the story, we are by no means even beginning to approach the end. As I mentioned awhile back, I intend to go through the end of the First Wizarding War (1981), even if it takes me the rest of my life to do so! I'm splitting it into sections, however, so as to give you a degree of closure in the event that I become indecently busy and am forced to take a six-month writing hiatus between a cliffhanger and the subsequent chapter. After the next chapter, I'll be in uncharted (ENTIRELY UNWRITTEN!) territory, but I'm hoping to get some writing and planning done before my next semester starts. I'll give more details once I get the next chapter posted.

Also, the next chapter is likely to feature a mentionable amount of Elphinstone Urquart. If you don't know who that is, and especially if you don't want to be spoiled regarding Pottermore information, stop reading at the end of this sentence and wait to read the rest until after you've read the additional information on Pottermore. I'm quite excited to explore this character, and that will be my project over the next couple of days before I post the chapter.

PLEASE REVIEW! Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note**: Unfortunately (for me), there are no good excuses as to why I have taken a pathetically long time to update. I may as well inform anybody who has made it to chapter seven that you're dealing with a pre-med student, so I am routinely forced to prioritize things in a less-than-ideal manner. As you can see, however, I haven't given up! There's much more to come, and I am still having an indecent amount of fun writing this. If you review, you'll make me happy. So, find it in your hearts to be nice and give me something to look forward to apart from my calculus final next Tuesday.

**Disclaimer**: In my head, I'm British. Actually, I'm not.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 7<strong>

1972**  
><strong>

Minerva filled her Thursday and afternoon after her 5th year Gryffindor-Slytherin class with correcting essays, only occasionally interrupted by a student asking for help on some spell or assignment. Thus, she found herself, early as usual but now clad in a traveling cloak, in front of the despised gargoyles that acted as sentinels for Dumbledore's office. Minerva was always acutely put at unease by the stone statues, having great dislike for the way that they leered at her when she approached. Furthermore, they did not seem to think highly of her either and were often quite loath to grant her entrance to the spiraling staircase, even when she stated the password numerous times. In fact, there had been one occasion when they refused to move aside until she recited the password in the fullness of her northern Scottish brogue. Annoyed, she had promptly complained to Dumbledore about it, mostly because they had probably acted at his suggestion.

"Chocolate Frog," she said sternly. The gargoyles gave her a stony glare and leapt aside.

Dumbledore's passwords typically reflected his obsession with sweets. In fact, the selected treat was less severe than his usual choices, which expanded completely through every sugary delicacy imaginable. The previous week Minerva had only half-listened to a broad dissertation on his latest fascination with some Muggle candy: lemon – somethings. She couldn't remember and nor did she try to.

The stairs came to a halt and Dumbledore's voice said "Enter."

Minerva stepped across the threshold. Dumbledore, of course, sat at his desk, surrounded by his whirring and humming collection of strange trinkets. However, Minerva's attention was drawn to the couple warming themselves by the fireplace.

"Minerva!" exclaimed Caroline McKinnon, a classy witch with sandy blonde hair and clear blue eyes who was a decade or so older than Minerva. Caroline's dark-haired, bespectacled husband Irving McKinnon lingered at the hearth with a grim smile painted on his face. Caroline instead rushed up to hug Minerva and ignored her noticeable stiffening when greeted with such affection.

"It's so good to see you, Minerva!"

"Yes, yes, Caroline," replied Minerva, attempting to gently shrug off her exuberant friend. "Thank you, for offering…"

"Oh, yes, you're more than welcome. Marlene's watching the house, of course. She wanted to come along, but Irving and I thought it was best if it wasn't left unattended," answered Caroline, knowing instantly what was referred to.

Minerva nodded concisely. She sighed at the realization of how suspicious she had already become, but a more protected conversation could take place at the McKinnon's manor.

"Now we're only waiting for those five students, Dumbledore?" Apparently, Irving was more uneasy than Minerva.

"Yes, indeed. I expect they will be coming soon. I suggested they use the Floo from Gryffindor common room once the most of the students had gone up to bed," said Dumbledore.

"All of them Gryffindors, Dumbledore?" asked Irving. His family was an extremely long line of Ravenclaws known for their house loyalty and, somewhat uncharacteristic, willingness to quickly involve themselves in the troubles of society. Minerva had to restrain herself from spouting off a lengthy defense of her students. Sadly, this was not a time for facilitating animosity or disunion.

"Yes, Irving. And a rather lively bunch at that," Dumbledore said casually.

Then, there was a great _whoosh_ and the five teenagers came catapulting out of the fireplace. Sigmund, clearly an inexperienced Floo traveler, collided headlong with Irving, who bristled and seemed to be intently scrutinizing the length of Sigmund's red hair. Caroline, however, laughed, telling her husband he should have known to move.

Dumbledore smiled. "Well, then. This seems to be everyone. Irving and Caroline McKinnon, meet Adaira Stirling, Shannon Kerrigan, Ben Fenwick, Eoin Bryan, and Sigmund Throckmore." He pointed to each of them in turn and then added, "I expect we will all get to know each other much better in the near future."

"Now, without further ado, I must ask you to step into the fireplace again, Sigmund. 'McKinnon Manor' will do. Perhaps you can go first to avoid another crash," Dumbledore proposed jovially. Sigmund grimaced and obliged, cursing slightly under his breath before asserting his destination. The rest followed suit until it was only Minerva and Dumbledore in his office.

"You think this is wise, Dumbledore?" Minerva probed.

"Oh yes, Minerva. I shudder to guess on what your bold Gryffindors would do if we refused them."

Minerva nodded curtly, needing only to pause for a moment to consider the horrendous alternatives that readily came to mind, and stepped into the fireplace.

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><p>The parlor of the McKinnon's manor was decorated with airy blue and bronze drapes and a large, east-facing window that covered the entire wall. From the ceiling hung numerous metallic candelabras that lit the room somewhat eerily, supplemented only by the fireplace on the west wall. The remainder of the room was comprised of a great mahogany table with several matching chairs, at which was seated the members of the Order of the Phoenix.<p>

Dumbledore, naturally, assumed the head of table, and Irving McKinnon occupied the other. Minerva sat at only seat remaining, to the right of Dumbledore, and noted the other guests. Caroline was by her husband, and their daughter Marlene, a curly-haired brunette in her twenties, was nearby, next to Caradoc Dearborn, a wizard slightly older than Marlene with dark hair who often dressed rather extravagantly. Nearest to them was Emmeline Vance. She was seated by Frank and Alice Longbottom, who had graduated Hogwarts the year previous, and the five students were clustered at the center of the table. Kathleen Kerrigan, Brendan and Holly Fenwick, and the Throckmore's were seated close to their respective children.

Further down the table nearer to Dumbledore was Hagrid, who had no doubt found another means of transportation, as the confines of a fireplace didn't generally accommodate his vast size. Elphias Doge, an old friend of Dumbledore's, was also present, along with the auror Alastor Moody, who surprisingly hadn't managed to assault anyone yet on suspicion of being an intruder. Although, his eyes were flicking twitchily around the room as if scanning for possible devices of espionage hidden in the ceiling. Minerva wondered vaguely how long it would be before he had an outburst of some sort.

Gideon and Fabian Prewett had gravitated toward Sigmund, apparently finding kinship in their flaming red hair and with the other Gryffindors by house loyalty. Minerva's younger brother Robert had also introduced himself to Sigmund, who had proceeded to gawk at him for several seconds upon realizing he was meeting his professor's younger brother. Edgar Bones, the extremely talented wizard who worked in the Ministry, was looking on with amusement as Dorcas Meadowes, an older witch with wiry gray hair who habitually wore oversized aviator sunglasses, made a comment that caused Dedalus Diggle's violet top hat to fall off. Minerva's brother Malcolm was good-naturedly tolerating Dedalus, making easy conversation with Edgar Bones.

The one remaining seat was to the right of Dumbledore, and Minerva briskly made her way over to it until she realized who else she would be sitting next to.

Elphinstone Urquart was, quite frankly, a very attractive older gentleman. (Although not even remotely "older" when compared to Dumbledore). Despite this careful acknowledgement, Minerva could not help but be forcefully reminded that Elphinstone was also nearly twenty years her senior, her former boss, and had already attempted to propose to her twice. The combination of these factors swiftly tempted Minerva to abruptly turn around, reenter the fireplace, and flee back to Hogwarts. She quickly – but not easily – overcame the impulse and took her seat – very stiffly, refusing to look him directly in the eye. Yet.

It was not as if she disliked him. In fact, in the privacy of her own thoughts late at night with the door bolted in her bedroom, she admitted that, in a small pocket of her heart, she might be a bit fond of him. But only a bit. And only on a good day. However, she had sworn off romantic relationships long ago, and thus she refused to entertain, let alone reciprocate, Elphinstone's demonstrated interest.

"Good evening, Minerva," said Elphinstone warmly. His voice was deep and distinctly Scottish, as always, but tonight colored with excitement. Why hadn't Minerva surmised that Albus would have been sure to contact Elphinstone at once? He _was_ of a very high-status position in the Department of Justice, after all, and Dumbledore was not at all ignorant of Elphinstone's particular affection for Minerva. Indeed, Elphinstone frequently saw to it that everyone could work that out for themselves with exceptionally minimal effort. Minerva was never particularly happy about it.

Minerva managed a cordial smile, now meeting his clear gray eyes with feigned confidence. "Evening."

She stifled a grimace. Why did she always feel so spineless around him?

Dumbledore began humming to himself, which caused the room to fall silent and sent Dedalus scurrying off to retrieve his absurd hat.

"I would like to thank you all for coming," said Dumbledore, addressing the room. "And, thank you, Irving and Caroline, for so generously offering your home."

"Hear, hear!" squeaked Dedalus so eagerly that his top hat once again toppled to the floor. Minerva barely stopped herself from groaning.

With that, Dumbledore proceeded to elaborate upon much of what he had already expressed to Minerva the week previously. It was perhaps a bit tangential, especially in the middle when he cited parallels between the current political climate and the rising one in the 1930s, but his audience seemed quite enraptured by the discussion. Of course, Alastor Moody pretended to be disinterested; however, it was clear to Minerva that he was thrilled to have his so-called conspiracy theories corroborated by such an influential figure. Glancing over, she noted Elphinstone appeared as inexpressive as usual whenever he was taking in highly-classified, potentially explosive information. He was accustomed to such an atmosphere, given the tremendously secretive nature of his position in the Ministry, but Minerva was also used to him in a professional setting. His eyes, blank to most, were calculating and comparing whatever Dumbledore said to previous information, forging connections where others wouldn't. Helplessly fascinated, Minerva pressed her palms firmly into her lap beneath the table, reciting her detailed reasons for quitting her job at the Ministry until Dumbledore graciously redirected the monologue.

"As for the minors present," he began cheerfully, allowing for a degree of disconcerted mumbling to emerge in the room, "I assure you that they will not be put into harm's way in any form, regardless of parental consent – or indifference." His eyes flashed mildly to Adaira.

"Of course, if any moment any other member deems it unsafe for their participation to continue, then it shall be discontinued at once. I hold everyone's personal safety in the highest regard, and those of age will take primary responsibility in determining which risks they are willing to take. With that being said, you are all being held to the utmost level of secrecy regarding the information you have received this evening. Those unwilling to be burdened with these facts can speak to me as soon as the meeting adjourns, and we will resolve the matter."

Then, Dumbledore allowed for questions. The next half an hour was consumed mostly with reiterations of his earlier speech, and then Dumbledore began with his concluding remarks.

"At present, we're mostly interested in gathering information. People behaving suspiciously are of particular interest, especially if said people are in positions where they are privy to confidential information or prone to influencing others of less discerning minds. We've all been hearing whispers. I hope to use this as a venue to consolidate what we've heard into a concrete system of information so we can be better informed as to how to proceed. Tentatively, we can plan to meet at the same date and time next month, until we devise a more sophisticated mode of communication. Those with ideas can consult me directly."

With that, Dumbledore declared the meeting adjourned, and Minerva immediately rushed across the room at a brisk pace – not running, of course; she would not run from Elphinstone Urquart. She engaged herself in some trifling discussion with Dorcas Meadowes about the "revolutionary" features of her new sunglasses. As Dorcas prattled on, Minerva failed to prevent herself from eavesdropping on the conversation Elphinstone was having with Ben Fenwick. Malcolm fortunately eventually took note of Minerva's boredom, which was probably rather obvious to her wizened younger brother. He nicely came over and rescued her, making a show of saying good night and such.

Moments later, Minerva's youngest brother Robert sauntered over, having concluded a very surreptitious-looking discussion with Gideon and Fabian Prewett.

"Hello there, sis," he said, smiling broadly.

In his typical style, Robert looked the part of a shaggy-haired, unemployed guitarist in a rock band. Today, he was clad in black, cutoff robes, jeans with tears at the knees that he would probably insist were in style if she bothered him about it, and a brightly-colored T-shirt. (The shirt was proudly emblazoned with a photograph of another guitarist with a preposterous haircut who seemed to be advertising some sort of Muggle travel. Apparently, zeppelins were making a comeback). From his tragically unprofessional getup, no one in their right mind would have ever guessed he was a Healer; yet, he had always been effortlessly talented, so she hadn't been surprised at his success. Minerva thought for a moment to ask him what he had been up to, but then, realizing she would probably be regaled with minutia about his latest musical fantasies and tattoo designs, opted for a narrower topic.

"I see you managed to drag yourself here on time. How very responsible of you. How's St. Mungo's, Robert? Have they sacked you yet?" she inquired sardonically, straightening his robes a bit.

"Ah, Min, don't be such a killjoy. I don't go to work like this," he replied, beaming. "I look much more rugged – bloodstains and all. Got to keep it cool for the ladies. I picked this out just for your benefit. Knew you'd fancy it."

From across the room, Minerva caught Ben, Sigmund, and Eoin snickering openly at her obvious disapproval. Her students were not the only individuals in the universe who thought it odd that she and Robert were related. Conversely, Adaira and Shannon were staring, mouths slightly agape. Minerva shook her head and shot them a stern look. This was not the first time she observed that a number of young women found her youngest brother rather dashing. Personally, she didn't understand. His hairstyle made him look like a wild animal and gave the impression of a distinct lack of cleanliness, not to mention his ludicrous wardrobe which –

"Oi, Min – stop it, will you?" complained Robert. Minerva quickly withdrew her hand, which had been subconsciously swiping at a bit of dust on his shoulder. "St. Mungo's is alright. Did have this poor bloke come in today, though – tried to swallow a firework! I imagine he may've been a bit under-the-influence at the time, if you understand my meaning – "

"Yes, Robert – I'm quite aware of what people get up to when they don't know what's good for them."

Robert laughed loudly and then abruptly transitioned into studying her intently. "Wait – really?"

Minerva glared, nostrils flaring.

"All right, all right!" Robert stepped back a bit, as if he had been scalded. "I know, I know. No need to get that way! Didn't say I had been joining him! Well, we sorted him out in the end. Bloody idiot."

Then, before Minerva could interrupt, Robert's wand began emitting purple sparks. He swore casually, probably just to infuriate her and put on a spectacle for her students, who were growing increasingly fascinated by her anomaly of a brother.

Robert grinned, shrugging his shoulders. "I'm being paged. Something gory, it seems. Or maybe that cute blonde mediwitch in triage got bored again. Nevertheless, duty calls!" And he disapparated.

Gradually, most of the other guests filtered out with varying degrees of smoothness. Dedalus Diggle nearly took out a portion of the mantelpiece in the process of entering the fireplace when he tripped and caused his wand to backfire. Minerva shook her head in mild dismay when Alastor Moody took the opportunity to launch into an enthusiastic lecture about proper wand placement. Then, after chivvying the students into the fireplace and threatening detention if they did not proceed directly to their common room, Minerva managed to lecture Moody about his recent home renovations that had nearly proven fatal the week before. He left soon after, leaving only Minerva, Dumbledore, the older McKinnons, and Elphinstone.

Dumbledore had conveniently made himself unavailable. Chattering on needlessly to Caroline and Irving, Minerva was unable to excuse herself decently, and just before she was about to do so indecently and thereby make an escape, she felt a hand on her forearm. She jumped horribly and spun around, drawing her wand.

"I had forgotten how jumpy you are, Minerva," said Elphinstone, amused, allowing his hand to linger a moment before withdrawing it.

As usual, Elphinstone had chosen to act deliberately to get some sort of reaction out of her. Oh, she hated him.

"Oh, I'm sure," she replied acerbically. "I see you haven't changed in the past year. Don't think I didn't notice you speaking to my students. Still recruiting?"

"Old habits die hard. Besides, my "retirement" equates to little more than an alteration of my title, Minerva. Surely you've assumed as much," he answered smoothly.

Minerva had to consciously resist balling her hands into fists. "Yes. I have indeed."

"Your students are very talented," he continued pensively. "Although, I'm quite astonished that you permitted them to attend."

As was typical of Elphinstone's preferred manner of conversation in a public setting, he refused to be straightforward, tending toward protracted periods of silence. Minerva was long since impressed by such invitations for her to play along with this particular charade.

Minerva lowered her voice, now painfully aware of Irving and Caroline's presence across the room. "You know perfectly well who 'permitted them to attend,' Elphinstone," she snapped, "and that it most certainly was not me."

"Minerva," Elphinstone began, his voice now equally quiet, "I know you aren't pleased to see me at the moment, but there are things happening within the Ministry regarding which I must confide in someone I trust implicitly. I cannot have such a discussion in the company of others – "

"Organize a meeting with Dumbledore, then. He's going to be in London over the weekend, but be sure to have him take notes. That man's memory has been rather unreliable lately, and I – "

"No," replied Elphinstone bluntly, staring directly into Minerva's eyes.

"Wh—no?"

"Minerva, I trust _you_."

Minerva blinked, feeling somewhat immobilized. Glancing down, she suddenly noticed Elphinstone's hand was lightly gripping her forearm again, but she didn't recoil this time. It was over fifteen years since Elphinstone had last lied to her, but she studied his earnest expression, aghast. He didn't trust Dumbledore? Yes, her current employer was something – or perhaps more than something – of a lunatic, a tortured genius, and had outrageous fashion sense. But, untrustworthy?

Minerva shook her head briskly. "Trust or not, I think you overestimate the power I wield in this situation, Elphinstone," Minerva whispered urgently.

"Dumbledore makes far too many sacrifices for what he believes to be the greater good," answered Elphinstone. His tone had grown almost inaudible.

Minerva chuckled darkly, temper flaring dangerously. "Is that so? As if that is such a foreign concept to you!"

"I am prepared to make sacrifices, but I will not make such drastic personal decisions on the behalf of others. You know that. As for Albus Dumbledore, I often speculate that the degree of his restraint is a touch more liberal than mine. I trust _you_."

Minerva stepped back, stifling a gasp and effectively extracting herself from Elphinstone's grasp. It was not often that Elphinstone brought a facet of anyone's character under such scrutiny, much less with others nearby, even much less if the person in question was Albus Dumbledore. Yet, Minerva nodded curtly, out of curiosity or even residual loyalty to her former boss. She swiftly repressed any thoughts of the latter. Then, Elphinstone abruptly returned to his favored air of mystery and mild superiority that he adopted in the presence of others, and he smirked at her.

"Well, Minerva, you'll be hearing from me," announced Elphinstone at normal volume.

She glared at him, forcing a twisted smile. "Yes, you're rather difficult to ignore. Much like an insect, or a first-year girl confronted with the gossip column in Witch Weekly."

"I admire your honesty, as always, darling," remarked Elphinstone. Then, he leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. "Until then!"

With that, he disapparated.. Fuming, Minerva stormed off to the hearth, bidding curt farewells to the McKinnons while retaining what she hoped were a few shreds of dignity. Just as she ascended into the floo, she observed Dumbledore, sitting almost smugly at the head of the table, eyes twinkling merrily at her as if he had just been witness to some sort of highly entertaining exhibition.

Once she returned to the castle and brushed off the ashes, careful not to dirty the carpet, and retreated to her rooms as quickly as her pride would allow. She shouted at William McGonagall after he proceeded to greet her by butchering a recitation of one of Shakespeare's more celebrated sonnets, and accidentally exploded three of the four logs in her fireplace in lieu of simply igniting them. Clutching a cup of tea with substantial force, Minerva curled up stiffly on her chaise longue and contemplated her propensity for being hired by utter maniacs.

Hours later, a faint tapping sounded on her parlor window. Minerva glanced at the clock and proceeded over to the window, internally cursing whoever had the nerve to send her an owl at three o'clock in the morning. Minerva untied the missive and opened it.

_Minerva,_

_I'd apologize for upsetting you earlier if I thought I actually offended you. Someone has to challenge you every so often, darling. Despite your irritation with me this evening, or in general, I do trust you, and I would like to discuss the situation in more detail with you in London on Saturday evening, if possible, at the usual time and location._

_Also, before you decide to have me committed for writing you in the middle of the night, consider the fact that you're still awake reading this. I'd insist you sleep more if you were an average human being, but as you are neither average nor particularly inclined to respond to my requests, I suppose that I'll merely suggest it and hope for the best._

_EU_

Minerva shook her head fondly, fetched a sheet of parchment, and neatly scripted her reply. Why did she inevitably find herself working for complete maniacs?

_Elphinstone,_

_Thank you for taking it upon yourself to be a challenging aspect of my life. Living in a castle filled with hundreds of semi-untrained, magical teenagers with questionable emotional stability rarely adds complications to my daily existence. London it is, but be aware that I expect direct answers and a very nice dinner. Sleep might be something you might want to experiment with as well. Theoretically, it helps one feel rested and refreshed, but I haven't ever found the need to test the practical limitations of the hypothesis. We can compare notes._

_MM_

With that, Minerva dispatched the owl, smiling despite herself, and extinguished the candles. Perhaps sleep did have its benefits after all.

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><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: Review! I'd very much like to know what you all think about Minerva's youngest brother and Elphinstone Urquart. I've put a significant amount of thought into the characterization for both of them, and I intend to develop them further as the story goes on. Robert is quite fun, isn't he? I thought it would be nice to scandalize Minerva a bit. As for Elphinstone, he may seem a bit odd or mysterious now, but there's much to be said about his profession, personal life, and history with Minerva. All in good time. You may have also noticed that he managed to effectively ask Minerva out just now… very tricky indeed.


End file.
